Tazelworm
by lonaj
Summary: Complex story about Phileas, his family history and Chatsworth. Some implied slash.
1. Default Chapter

AUTHOR'S NOTES:  This fan fic. Was begun and has been waiting quite a while for a finish.  It's going to take some determination and encouragement.  So let me know what you think.

CATEGORY:  Drama, action, uh, would someone please tell me what adventure is?  Humor -- I try, but . . .  

RATING/WARNINGS: PG-13, I think. All my stories are essentially about Phileas, but this one is not particularly romantic.  Sorry.

MAIN CHARACTERS:  In no particular order: Passepartout, the entire Fogg cast (including Erasmus), Jules, Lazarus, Franz Draquot and Yvette Soretsky, Baron von Bresslau (he's the guy that lost Passepartout and the Aurora in the card game).

DISCLAIMERS: Phileas Fogg and Passepartout probably belong to some French publishing company that lost its copyright a century ago, Jules Verne belongs to himself (or maybe his great grandson), any other character that has appeared in an SAJV ep. belongs to Talisman Crest or whoever who holds the SAJV copyright, and the remaining characters belong to me.

August 1840, Castle Konigsthor, East Prussia

"Well, go on, ask him!" Rebecca Fogg urged Erasmus, her older cousin.  He was actually her second cousin, on her paternal grandfather's side of the bed; that's why she was a Fogg, not a Drysdale or a Pratchett.  And since neither one of those branches of her family tree had so much as offered her a carriage ride since her parents' funeral, Rebecca was quite pleased to be a Fogg.

Erasmus's eyes rolled in his head.  Had she egged him on just a little too hard?  "Becs!  We haven't even asked Phileas yet!" he protested.

No, she hadn't pushed him too hard -- Erasmus required a firm hand when it came to his confronting his father.  "Phileas'll do it!  I know he will.  He's as bored as we are.  Go on!"  Rebecca gave him an encouraging shove in the general direction of the grown-ups.  She would have asked Sir Boniface herself; but for something like this, one of the boys was more likely to get a "yes" out of him than she, and Rebecca really wanted to get out of the conference hall today.  Enough to swallow her pride and send Erasmus instead.  It had taken her ten minutes of non-stop whispering, but it looked like Raz had overcome his indecision.  Glancing at her with determination one last time, Raz straightened his cravat, smoothed his jacket, then walked toward his father.

This break would be their best chance to escape, as only the Englishmen remained in the conference hall.  Negotiations were in suspension as Junker von der Goltz and his pack of Prussian nobles had asked for caucus time and adjourned to a private office.  The last time they did that, Tuesday night, they hadn't been seen again for three hours.  More than enough time for them to sneak away to the dungeons and sacrifice a virgin or two to a local dragon – if they'd been so inclined and the dragon were hungry.

She had no reason to suspect any such outrageous thing of Junker von der Goltz, their host here at Castle Konigsthor, Rebecca reminded herself with reluctant but scrupulous fairness.  He was a big man, six feet four inches at least, and in his white and gray Cuirassier uniform with all its brass buttons and gold braid, he moved as tightly and precisely as a well-machined musket.  But so far he'd been civil to all of them, most especially Rebecca.  His own daughter Sabine was from home for a month and he seemed to miss her.  He gravely inquired Rebecca's health each morning before negotiations convened; and yesterday after she'd shown an interest, provided the venue of each antique weapon hung on the wall.

Sir Boniface had gone to stand with Sir Reginald, the trade ambassador, at a window on the east wall of the room.  Morning light streamed through a colored glass depiction of a striking basilisk.  The light illuminated Sir Boniface's sharp-featured profile, tightly strung shoulders and gesturing hands in checkers of blue, red and green,.

As Sir Boniface whispered, Sir Reginald bobbed his head in agreement.  Fleshy cheeks and a down-turned mouth gave Sir Reginald the look of a pouting baby.  It had been a difficult round of bargaining this trip.  At eleven o'clock in the morning both men already looked drawn.  They'd ordered a second coffee service.  The kitchen would be sending it up presently, no doubt.

Phileas Fogg -- Rebecca's other cousin and at fifteen years of age, nearly seven years older than Rebecca and five years older than Erasmus -- leaned back in the leather chair he'd occupied for the last two days of conferences, his eyes closed, his long loose limbs carelessly arranged.  He seemed to have fallen asleep again.  He dozed off at every break.

Erasmus approached his father and Sir Reginald at the window, heartened by the knowledge that Rebecca stood just a few paces behind him.  And Phileas, although asleep, was only a few paces away in the other direction.  "Father?" Erasmus asked, his voice quavering a little, "Father, may Becs and I go into the village with Phileas today?  It's such a fine day, Sir."  Well, he'd said it.  Not too well, but he had got it out.

Sir Boniface broke off what he was saying and glanced first at Erasmus and then in the other direction where his older son slept.  He frowned.  "Yes, certainly, Raz.  Go, but stay close to Phileas."

Erasmus hadn't expected permission.  Not only his face, but his whole body lit up -- perhaps lightened up would be more accurate.  On air he pirouetted back to Rebecca.  She bounced up and down clapping her hands soundlessly.  "And Raz," Sir Boniface continued.

Erasmus turned.  "Sir?"

"Never interrupt me when I'm in conference."

The reproof was mildly delivered but Erasmus blushed and bowed his head.  "Yes, sir.  Sorry, sir."

Phileas indeed proved cooperative.  In fact, he hadn't even been asleep.  When Rebecca went to wake him, she found Phileas already on his feet, trying to sort out his rumpled jacket and neck cloth.  "Where did you have in mind, Becs?" he asked as he tried to re-tie the latter.  Apparently, he hadn't been sleeping at all.  He knew in whose brain this expedition had been hatched.

Phileas was hopeless when it came to clothes.  Erasmus swatted his older brother's hands away from the disastrous neck cloth and told him to sit.  Undoing the rumpled mess, Raz re-tied it snugly and neatly into a very presentable knot.  He patted his handiwork with satisfaction then again tweaked his own cravat into a just tiny bit better position.

Behind them Rebecca was talking about her plans.  "Oh, the chambermaid told me about the most marvelous storyteller down in the village!  She said he knows every Prussian fairy tale.  Come on!  Let's go!"  As Raz finished with the neck cloth, she grabbed Phileas's hand, then Erasmus's.  Towing them like a pair of mis-matched carriage horses, she led them out into the hall.

Sir Reginald turned to watch the children leave.  "That Rebecca is quite the romp, isn't she, Boniface?"

The other man chuckled.  "The trial of Phileas's young life, I'm afraid, but she's been good for both of my boys.  Rallies them together, keeps things from getting too morose.  I try not to hold too tight a rein.  They'll have little enough chance to be young."  The two men turned back to the window.  The children had left and the treaty had yet to be settled.

Finding the storyteller proved simple enough.  They walked down the cart road into the village and onto the green, and there he was, holding court with what looked to be every child for miles around.

They immediately discovered a problem.  The old storyteller spoke a colloquial German difficult for a foreigner to follow.  Of the three of them, only Phileas understood well enough to sort it out.

"Oh, do translate for us, Phileas!" Rebecca begged.

He gave her an apprehensive look.  "Becs, I don't think I can talk that long . . ."  Rebecca knew what worried him.  He hadn't stammered much since he started at Eton, but his wayward tongue still fouled up now and then.  It might grab hold of him if he attempted this translation.  Thinking in two languages at once tended to kink up even the straightest tongue.  Rebecca's own French translations came out in great knotty piles of mis-matched consonants and vowels.

"You can do it, Phil!" Erasmus encouraged him.

"Yes, please, Phil.  Please?  I promise not to rag you.  Please?" Rebecca added.

Phileas's lips pinched and quirked.  "Is that a 'maybe' promise or an 'absolutely' promise, Becs?"  Right after she'd moved into Shillingworth Magna Rebecca had teased him on almost every word he said.  He still had a tender sore where his trust ought to be.  But then she'd been what?  All of seven?  Now, as she'd be more than happy to tell you, she was a big girl of nine, and truly a bit more mature.  It least she didn't tease as often.

Rebecca wasn't to be ruffled.  "An absolutely, cross-my-heart promise, sweetest cousin."

Phileas's eyes narrowed in skepticism, but he said.  "Oh, very well, but you must listen quietly, or we shall all go back to the castle straightway and sit through more of Father's conferences.  Agreed?"

Both heads nodded and they murmured agreement.  It was only polite and besides they owed him for agreeing to join them.  Sir Boniface would never have let them leave the conference room without Phileas.

"I suppose you two would like to be up higher?  Here, let me give you a hand."  As Phileas spoke he lifted Rebecca to the top of the low, thick wall that divided the village green from the cart path.  Then he gave his brother a hand up.  Rebecca plopped down on the wall, her skirts all disarranged.  Erasmus sat down with more care, making sure no debris stained his trousers.  Phileas stood behind them, his head between theirs.

Their heads now level with Phileas's, Rebecca and Erasmus had a good view of the storyteller under the tree, an elderly man on a rustic chair of un-peeled sticks.  Children surrounded him, reclining on the grass at his feet, or on rough chairs of their own.  A few sat further along on the wall.  The old man's voice piped in the afternoon air, and Phileas whispered his translations.

"Uh, he's been telling about a dragon and two children lost in the marshes, but I think that story is complete.  Yes.  See that little boy?  The storyteller just asked him if he knows the reason a stork always examines its dinner before swallowing it down."  The tiny Prussian boy in question shook his head vigorously and spoke.  Phileas whispered, "The little boy says the stork in the chimney at home always looks his dinner over with one eye before eating."  Every child in the storyteller's audience nodded.  Apparently they'd all seen storks do that.

Phileas smiled as he listened to the storyteller's German.  "The old man says the stork wants to make sure it's not a tazelworm."

"A tazelworm!  What's a tazelworm?" Rebecca broke in.

"Shh, I don't know, Becs.  Maybe he'll tell us.  Now listen quietly or I can't keep up," Phileas admonished.  Erasmus took the little girl's hand and squeezed it.  The two youngest cousins grinned at each other.  There were times when being a Fogg was the best thing in the world, Rebecca decided.

Phileas continued the story.  "He's describing tazelworms now.  I think it's a lizard of some kind.  They have scales, and look like a snake with four tiny legs.  They live in the ground and only come out before a hard rain.  It's very shy, that's why you never see one.  And stubborn, you've never seen anything like it!  Once a tazelworm gets a grip, it holds on to the death!  And they live in large loving families, all in the same burrow.  Uh, I think he's telling about people who have sighted a tazelworm, Otto that lives down the street and Hans over the hill.  He says 'ask them if you don't b-b-believe me.'"

Rebecca looked up.  Oh, dear.  Phileas had stammered the "b" rather badly.  She hadn't heard him stammer in several months. He might give up and they would never hear about tazelworms.  Time for some major encouragement.  Rebecca kissed her cousin on the cheek.  "Go on, please, Phileas.  More?"

Phileas glanced at her in surprise but accepted the buss.  Rebecca's demonstrations of affection ran more towards thumps on the back and pinches in the bum.  She rarely did something so feminine and overtly loving as to kiss him.  It made a nice change.

From the other side Erasmus patted his arm and said, "Yes, tell us more.  Don't stop now."

"Well, now he's telling about the storks.  How they flew up from Africa and built nests up on the roofs and had v-v-very happy homes, with eggs in their nests and lots of things to eat, until one day a Papa Stork tried to eat a tazelworm for d-d-dinner."  Phileas paused for breath.

"The Papa Stork usually went to the lake to hunt his dinner, but that day there was a thunderstorm, so he flew to the mountains just to see what he could find.  He saw something scampering through t-t-tall grass and swooped down to catch it in his beak."  Phileas stopped to listen again while Rebecca and Erasmus raptly watched the storyteller illustrate his narrative with flapping hand motions.

"Now remember this was before storks carefully looked over their prey, so Papa Stork had no idea what he carried.  He landed on a treetop and tilted up his beak to swallow the tazelworm, but it wouldn't go!  It had been snatched away from the very d-d-doorstep of his loved ones.  No, the worm thought, I will not be someone's dinner!  I want to see my family again!  He was that stubborn, you know.  So as the tazelworm started to slide head first into the stork's gullet, it reached out with two little legs and caught hold."  Phileas punctuated this with a pinch in the side for Rebecca and Erasmus.  They giggled and squirmed in his arms.

The storyteller had continued and Phileas burst out laughing.  Erasmus whispered, "What happened, Phileas?  What happened next?"  Phileas smiled at his younger brother and mussed Erasmus's dark hair.  The three of them hadn't had so much fun since they'd left England three weeks ago.  Rebecca's plot this morning had proved a great success.  This was ever so much better than another day of wheat tariffs and port duties.

"Well, the tazelworm was stuck in the stork's throat.  The bird tried very hard to swallow him, jumping up and down and flapping its wings and all kinds of things, but the tazelworm would not let go and slide down.  The worm wanted to return to his loved ones, you see, and it vowed to hold on.  Finally, exhausted and frightened the stork gurgled, 'If I open my beak, will you crawl out of my throat?'  The tazelworm saw an opportunity to protect all his family forever and thought it worth risking his life.  He answered the stork, 'Only if you promise storks will never eat tazelworms again.'  The desperate stork agreed and the tazelworm slowly backed out."

The narrator approached the conclusion of his story.  He bent forward and wagged a finger at a nearby little girl.  "Storks are very honorable," Phileas whispered.  "They don't make false promises.  The stork made sure all of his brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles knew about his pledge to the tazelworm.  And since that day every stork stops and looks closely at dinner so to keep the long ago Papa Stork's bargain."  He sighed.  He hadn't stammered for several minutes.

Rebecca hugged as much of Phileas as she could encompass.  She put a small hand on his throat.  "Do you think, Phil," she asked, "do you think there's a tazelworm in there?"

He chuckled and hugged her and Erasmus both.  "Yes, Becs, maybe so."

************.

1862, London, St. James

The sun-lit November afternoon made Phileas Fogg's walk from the jewelry shops below Westminster to the Reform Club on Pall Mall into a pleasant expedition.  A brisk breeze blew a shower of gold oak and red maple leaves out of St. James's Park and across Birdcage Walk.  The fluttering leaves spooked a mettlesome saddle horse.  Further along a drayman snatched at his reins and shouted a good round of cursing at a carriage that had almost smashed into his cart.

Surely a pleasing day to be alive.

As he walked along Fogg played with the small flat box in his left pocket.  It had taken all morning and visits to five different shops, but he had found it -- the perfect gift for Rebecca's birthday.  The box held a slender gold bracelet inset with diamonds and rubies nestled in a fold of black velvet.  It complemented the ruby choker he'd bought her for Easter, the one she favored when she wore red or maroon, and that was just about every day.  For Christmas, he'd buy her either a matching ring or diamond-crested hairpins to complete the set.

Fogg's mood was so sweet he didn't even mind walking a few blocks down Whitehall, a street he generally avoided.  Passing Secret Service headquarters, he gave the doorman, bull-shouldered George Redd who'd served there for years, a casual flick of salute, tapping his leather-gloved finger on the brim of his beaver hat.  He'd spent so many years going in and out of those doors.  Thank God he'd escaped.

The breeze grew stronger and graduated to wind status.  It lifted the skirts of Fogg's greatcoat and tugged at his lapels as he stepped quickly across the Mall, avoiding carts and carriages with practiced ease.  Unfortunately some of the splashed refuse still found him.  His new ensemble of smooth black wool seemed to show every fleck of debris, even more so than the fawn and honey fashionable last summer.  Passepartout would have the very devil of time keeping the thing clean.

Yesterday his tailor had sworn gentlemen of consequence would soon find black the only suitable color for daywear.  Bernard seldom postulated fashion trends incorrectly, but Fogg felt a hobgoblin in all this dark cloth.  He'd had black ensembles before, but never one quite this severe.  The ominous fabric sucked the light and life out of the air.  No ornamentation livened it up, either, as even the neck cloth was a simple black ribbon.  The whole effect approached the funereal.

Fogg considered walking the extra two blocks to Jermyn Street for a moment in Bernard's hands.  His trousers needed an adjustment in the waist and he wanted another go at persuading the tailor to moderate the suit's harshness just a bit.  But Fogg decided against it.  He had a luncheon appointment with Baron Harbin von Bresslau at two, and he respected the man too much to make him kick his heels.

As he reached Pall Mall and passed the Athenaeum, Fogg stepped just a tiny bit faster on the off chance Sir Jonathan Chatsworth might be visiting his club.  He'd managed to get past Service Headquarters without encountering Chatty and he didn't want to see him now.  It would kill the mood.  It had happened before, more than once, running into Chatsworth here.  It was one of the disadvantages of belonging to the Reform, having the Athenaeum Club (and Chatsworth) across the street.  Today Fogg felt too good for a dose of Sir Jonathan's dour condemnation.  Luckily he made it past the Athenaeum, across Pall Mall, up the steps of the Reform and inside its mahogany doors without a sign of the head of the Secret Service.

"Hullo, Harry, my man!" Fogg greeted the elderly clerk behind the front desk.  Harry nodded a greeting and checked off a square on the list before him, "So pleasant to have you back, Mr. Fogg.  May I venture to say you are looking in exceptional spirits today?"

"Yes, you may tell me, Harry.  I am indeed pleased with the world.  I'm expecting an old friend for a guest, Baron von Bresslau.  Has he arrived?"

"Why yes, sir, and I took the liberty of seating him with a glass of wine and cakes."

"Excellent, excellent," Fogg declared as he divested himself of greatcoat, hat and stick.  The gold bracelet on his left wrist caught in his cuff as it sometimes did.  He paused a moment to untangle it then quickly strode across the foyer's marble floor.  Sunlight from the glass roof illuminated his black-clad figure as he started up the wide staircase leading to the card and dining rooms.

Long ago Fogg had come to terms with himself regarding his membership in the Reform Club.  The Club's rooms sighed luxury.  The halls murmured wealth.  Cut crystal chandeliers glistened in every room.  Fine, leather-bound books in all the most recent editions filled the enormous libraries.  Every wall held ornate mirrors and vast areas of wooden paneling.  Marble columns, statuary and floor mosaics accented the effect.  Servants glided about in swan-skin shoes that reduced noise and intrusion to a minimum.  It was privilege at its most pretentious.

It was also the most liberal gentlemen's club in London, perhaps on the entire European continent as well.  And it was an excellent place to eat.

Fogg stood in the door of the dining room for a moment trying to spot the Baron.  He waved off the maitre d' who came to seat him, then changed his mind and gestured for him to approach.  "Baron von Bresslau?" he asked.

He sighed when he saw where the maitre d' led him – a shaded corner close to the palm court.  It was too reminiscent of the old days when he, his father Sir Boniface and whatever agents were in and available sat here in a safe corner plotting the downfalls of dynasties.  It was even more painfully mindful of that very last council when Erasmus had joined the circle and died as a result.

The Baron would have asked for that corner table, since it was a good choice for a spy.  He had solid walls on two sides, proximity to the kitchen exit and an excellent view of the entrance.  A man could not be trapped here and would see everything that approached.

Since he'd left the Service, Fogg sat in the middle of the dining room, as far from the walls as possible and in full light.

The Baron stood and with a pleased cry of greeting held out his hand, "Phileas, my boy, I'm so glad you came!"

"Indeed, Baron, my pleasure," Fogg responded while he shook the man's hand and studied his face.  Older, definitely older.  The hairline had receded a bit further.  The lines from nose to chin were cut a bit deeper.  There was something different about the eyes, too.  When Fogg had last seen the Baron over that marathon card game after his father's funeral, there'd been a touch of humor there, a self-mocking and a willingness to laugh and enjoy the ridiculous.  These eyes held no humor at all, only the pinched look of fatigue.

The maitre d' pulled out a chair for him across from the Baron.  Flicking away his coattails Fogg sat, deliberately choosing to accept a chair that put his back to the room.  He didn't play the great game any more.  He wasn't a spy and he didn't worry about death walking in while his back was turned.  He calmly arranged himself, right leg crossed over the left at the ankle, his slender hands folded on his thigh, his expression benignly mild.  He would not let his good humor dissipate.

The Baron looked behind Fogg, towards the door, not on alert for dangerous invaders but seeking more of Fogg's party.  Fogg knew what, or rather who, the Baron had on his mind, but chose to ignore the unspoken question.  He hadn't mentioned this luncheon to Passepartout or even that Baron von Bresslau had returned to London after several years' absence.  It had been a selfish decision to keep that information to himself, but one he'd make again.  He wasn't sure what Passepartout would do if given the opportunity to see von Bresslau.  Fogg didn't care to risk it, at least not yet.  Not until he'd had time to think it over and devise an offer sufficiently sweet to keep Passepartout from leaving his hire.

Fogg's pleasant mood began to feel strained.

He called the Baron's attention back to the table as the waiter offered them menus.  "It was so good to see you at the Palace last week, Harbin.  You'll attend Her Majesty for a while?"

"Yes, yes.  She still mourns Albert deeply.  Gladstone asked me to do what I can to cheer her."

They talked of inconsequentials until the waiter returned for their orders.  The menu's best choices, the Baron's new address in Islington Gardens and today's pleasant weather all received due examination.

After they'd ordered, the Baron asked, "How is Rebecca doing in the Service?  Does Chatsworth still believe a woman agent an impossibility?"

Fogg snorted.  "If she should live so long, Rebecca will be running the Service, Baron, no matter what Chatty thinks.  She's the best agent I've ever seen, but reckless and bloodthirsty withal.  I constantly fear for her life."

The Baron smiled.  "She sounds like a young agent I once trained, a young man with a great deal of promise."

Fogg's head tilted to one side and he smiled at his old mentor.  "She's better player than I ever was, Harbin.  Smarter, more dedicated to the Crown.  And much more willing to endure incompetence in her superiors."

"But she's a Fogg as well."

"Yes, a Fogg, and has all that ferocious temper to deal with.  She handles it far better than I ever did.  But enough about the Foggs.  Tell me about your latest project.  Are you building another dirigible?  I had expected at least two more airships out of your Prussian shipyard by now.  You've been over there for what, three years?"

"Four.  They're too expensive, I'm afraid.  My financing dried up and I haven't found another source."  The Baron glanced beyond Fogg's shoulder again.  He plucked up his damask napkin and spread it in his lap as the waiter arrived with their bowls of bisque.  Conversation lapsed while the gentlemen paid the Reform Club's chef his due respect for a full five courses.

They both leaned back with satisfied sighs when the waiter brought Fogg his favorite after-dinner drink, a cinnamon-spiced claret, and the Baron a glass of eiswein and a Partagas cigar.  "Well, Phileas, despite appearances I did ask to see you for a particular reason," the Baron said while the waiter trimmed the cigar's end and prepared it for lighting.  The Baron took the cigar between his fingers and while the waiter held a cedar spill to its end, he puffed it to life.  The waiter placed a small sharp penknife on the table for trimming the cigar and left them to their pleasure.  A sweet, white cloud of cigar smoke enveloped them both and drifted in the general direction of the palm court, and away from the three or four of their fellow diners that remained in the hall.  The hour approached four, the closing time for the luncheon meal.

In addition to their claret and eiswein, they'd had a different wine with each course.  A bumblebee or two buzzed around inside Fogg's head.  Now it comes, he thought.  I'm about to find out the real reason why von Bresslau returned to England, not that I care.  It undoubtedly was a Secret Service matter, but Harbin felt much as Fogg did about Chatsworth -- a waste of perfectly good office space.

Really Rebecca ought to be hearing this, thought Fogg.  'S shame the Club didn't accept women members.

"Do you recall a Prussian junker named Eduard von der Goltz?  You might have met him as a child."

Fogg studied the painting hung on the wall behind the Baron:  a depiction of Saint George slaying the dragon.  Loose coils of the mythical beast surrounded the Saint and looped around the hillocks behind him.  Fogg considered for a moment George's silvery armor and the dragon's scaled helix.  It jogged his memory.  "I remember.  A bulwark of a fellow.  Just huge.  Erasmus called him the walking siege tower.  He had Konigsthor or some such castle -- that summer we all went with Father to the Prussian conferences.  Erasmus and Rebecca, they found this . . . well never mind that.  We never told anyone.  So what about this von der Goltz?"  Fogg's syntax meandered a bit from the liquor.

"He killed your father," von Bresslau said.  He drew heavily on his cigar and puffed a large cloud of smoke.  It hid his face from Fogg for a moment.

The flatness of the statement silenced the pleasant hum in Fogg's head.  He reviewed the words.  Killed his father?  His father had died five years ago of unknown but perfectly natural causes, or so the doctors all said.  Killed his father?  What made von Bresslau think . . .?  He straightened in his chair and opened his mouth to ask.  He felt the words jitter in his tongue.  If he spoke now, he'd stutter.  The moment passed.

Just as well.  The Baron continued without prompting, "Phileas, you have to understand I'm re-constructing this well after the fact, but one of my contacts in Saxe-Coburg has passed on that von der Goltz and his junker cronies have been slowly poisoning King Frederick.  It's the reason for his madness."  The Baron looked at his cigar, brought it to his mouth, puffed again.  "Do you recall your last Service mission into Prussia?  The one where . . ."

Fogg broke in, his annoyance heating.  "Of course, I remember it.  Erasmus was killed.  I left the service.  One does not forget a debacle, Baron."  He finished his claret in one gulp and slammed the goblet down.  The Baron's crystal ashtray rattled, scattering a few soft gray ashes on the white tablecloth.

Von Bresslau continued as if Fogg hadn't spoke, " . . . the mission to assassinate von Bismarck."

By now Fogg's alcoholic haze had finished burning away.  He felt clear as a bell, an un-rung, angry bell.  "Sir Otto was born under a very luck star, Harbin.  We never did get a clear shot at him and the Prussians got off several at us.  And our stars were not so lucky."

"They knew you were coming."

"Yes, they knew."  Fogg looked away.  He didn't like talking about the abortive mission that had stolen Erasmus's life.  "I hope you have a point to this, Baron, because if you don't, I have some rather important business I need to attend to in the card room."

The Baron picked up the penknife the waiter had left and trimmed off a small bit from the chewed end of the cigar.  He had more to say.  "Von der Goltz not only knew you were coming, he knew who sent you, Phileas, and why.  You and Erasmus didn't know the reason for your attempt on von Bismarck.  Your father knew and I'm guessing it was the plot to poison King Frederick.  When you failed, your father had to try again, even if meant doing it himself.  I don't think he would have since he was too old and well known, but you know how he was.  And von der Goltz apparently thought so too, as well.  After you resigned, he ordered your father dead."

Fogg became very still.  "You have proof of this."

"Tessat confirms it."  Tessat was the code name of von Bresslau's most reliable source.  From the information he'd passed along over the years Fogg had always supposed Tessat to be a high-born woman.

"Why ever did she wait so long to tell you?"

"She had . . . personal reasons, and I don't think she knew until recently."

They sat in silence.  The waiter returned with the bottles of claret and eiswein, but both men shook their heads.  The coffee service rolled by.  They accepted two steaming cups.  Fogg took his black, the Baron whitened his with cream.

Assassinations had never been official Service missions.  Sir Boniface had assigned them and the more violent coups d'etat to his son Phileas, to keep murder in the family as it were.

Under Chatsworth's fussy, file-clerk administration Fogg doubted the Service even staffed an assassin, unofficial or otherwise.  That would explain why von Bresslau had come directly to Phileas Fogg – he had murder in mind.  Retaliation, revenge – either taking down von der Goltz or another try at von Bismarck.  He wasn't sure which the Baron wanted.  Von Bresslau couldn't do it himself.  His ties to the Hanovers were too close.  He couldn't afford to be caught.  It wouldn't do to have Her Royal Highness implicated in that kind of violence.

Fogg found himself glad that Chatsworth was such a stiff that von Bresslau had bypassed him completely.  Rebecca shouldn't be involved in this.  He'd rather do it himself, if it needed to be done.  But he hadn't decided.  What would another death produce save one less scum on the earth?  There always seemed to be more waiting in the wings.  He'd disposed of far too many and he was tired of the killing.

His mind wandered back to the mysterious Tessat, the Prussian woman who knew so much.  "Who is she, Baron?  Tessat, I mean.  I think it's time I knew."

Von Bresslau's cigar was burning down in the ashtray.  He picked it up again, played with the length, took a gentle puff.  "I don't know myself, Phileas.  Truly, I don't.  She's always posted me notes from Berlin when she had something worth my time.  I've only met with her once and I've never seen her face.  All I can tell you is that she's tall for a woman.  Taller than me."  The Baron stood about five foot nine.  That made the woman at least five foot ten.  Very tall for a woman.

Fogg knew that society at the Baron's level was a relatively small group of people, even in the complex German Confederation.  Von Bresslau would have an idea of who she might be.  He chose not to tell Fogg, at least not yet.

The silence stretched out.  The windows had turned from blue, to gray and now to a reflective black.  Beyond the Reform Club's doors, all up and down the cold streets of London hundreds of shopkeepers stood in doorways, keys in hand.  Hundreds of locks snicked in unison.  Twice that many sensible shoes headed for home.

A waiter would be coming soon to ask if Fogg and Von Bresslau desired carriages.  He would have to begin laying covers for the evening meal.

Fogg picked up the penknife from the table and played with it, tossing the slim knife spinning in the air and catching the haft again as it came down.  His eyes tracked its path.

The Baron's cigar burned to an insupportable stub and with a single stroke in the ashtray he put it out.

The men looked at one another.

Fogg realized von Bresslau wouldn't ask him to pick up the assassin's stiletto again in so many words.  Von Bresslau expected him to volunteer.  If Fogg chose not to do so, the Baron would have an alternate plan to take down his target.

It was all about choice, his choice.  Choosing to return to a life he'd denounced or to escape with some small piece of soul still intact.  Fogg stood the penknife up on end, haft down.  He rested the ball of his thumb on the point, lifted it away, and considered the bead of blood that formed there.  It enlarged and ran down the thumb and over his clenched fist.

"How soon will you be sharing this information with Sir Jonathan?" Fogg asked.

The Baron looked at Fogg's hand holding the knife.  His eyes flicked up to Fogg's face.  He shook his head.  "Not soon.  I haven't decided whether to involve the Service.  Not much can be done except for some, uh, appropriate pruning.  They're not equipped for that anymore."

"No, they're not," Fogg agreed.  He wiped the blood off his hand with a napkin and turned to look for the waiter.  Fogg summoned him from the far side of the room with a nod of his head.  It was time to order a carriage for the Baron to travel home, and Fogg's whist partner usually joined him at this hour (his bank closed at five).

Fogg continued as he stood up, "Baron, I suggest you keep this under your hat for yet a while.  I'll let you know in two or three days."  He held out his hand.  "Pleasant journey."

************.

1862, Paris, rue du Mont-Cenis

"Madame Soretsky."  A grand name for a medium, was it not?  So mysterious, so foreign, you could easily believe such a woman would know forbidden things.  But it was a total fabrication.  Madame Soretsky had been born Yvette de Chancie, the daughter of a boulanger, on rue du M___ in Paris, far too many years ago for a lady to reveal.

At seventeen Yvette's father had bought her a crystal ball.  "Use your talent to make money," he'd said, "not scaring your family out of their wits."

She'd changed her name to Soretsky, after her father's carthorse, and moved to a studio on the rue du Mont-Cenis at the foot of Montmarte.  Within two days she'd held her first seance.

Later she would tell friends that the name change had been the most important.  How could a famous medium be named "mouldy"?  It suggested far too much the more corporeal aspects of the grave.

Her father held no grudge for the name change.  He sympathized.  Everyone who bought his bread knew him only as "Pierre."

As she paced around her small set of rooms, Yvette muttered curses in her childhood's gutter French, rather than high-society Française or the oh-so-elegant Anglais she'd learned from her tutor.  Like many people, her vocabulary tended to revert to that of her earliest years when she was drunk and the hour was late.

Yvette was upset.  When she and Franz Draquot had returned from their dinner, her parlor had smelled of carrion, a miasma particularly revolting on a full stomach.  She'd spent the next half hour, candle in hand, poking around with her fireplace tool, looking for little dead creatures.  Her wide crinoline belled up and revealed white petticoats as she knelt down and bent over to check under the high boy, the bed and the skirted washstand.

She found nothing but dust and lint.  "Really!" Yvette muttered to herself and poked a particularly large nest of fluff, "I pay that maid to clean twice a week, and look at this!  I think there's a mouse in this somewhere."  Over by the fireplace Franz snorted.  He watched her prowling with only mild interest.

Deep shadows on the floor slithered and fled as Yvette walked to the loveseat where Franz sat.  "It must be a rat in the wall," she said, sitting down next to him.  "Or that Lazarus haunt, come back to do more mischief.  He had that same stink.  Every time he came to me, j'ai pensé que je vomirais."  She'd sent Lazarus down to Hell a year ago, but she looked around uneasily at the thought of his possible return.

Franz sipped a glass of brandy and considered the matter of smells.  With a sniff he tested the room's air.  "As of rotting flesh, you say, Yvette?  I cannot detect it.  Perhaps it's something in your neighbor's apartment or on the street, wafting in now and again."  Franz's voice had an indistinct, breathless quality, as though an asthma attack waited just beyond the next word.  Yvette untied his kerchief so she could stroke his throat.  She loved that breathy voice.

Franz wrapped his arm around her and smiled.  They must be the strangest pair of lovers in Paris, Yvette thought.  They ought to be enemies.  He, the doctor of ethereal science and lecturer at La Sorbonne.  She, the well-known medium and stage performer not above assisting the spirit world with mechanical contrivance.

Franz had another thought.  "Lazarus's manifestations smelled?" he asked.  "You've never mentioned that before, Yvette."

"Mon dieu, a smell to rot the sinuses, Franz."  She smiled under his steady gaze.  She knew that look.  He'd become the scientist studying his subject.  She patted his stocky, middle-aged chest.  "Let us not talk about Lazarus.  He's not here.  I know it.  He's more than smell.  He burns the air.  He crackles.  Don't put me under that microscope of yours.  Let's just be Franz and Yvette, a man and a woman."

He put his brandy glass to her lips.  He tilted it and she sipped.  He said, "Hmm.  And which are you?  Yvette or Franz?"  She laughed and unbuttoned more of his shirt while he nibbled at her neck.

They spent the next hour practicing their therapeutic massage and free-form exercises -- leg lifts, curl ups, push ups (lots of those), and deep breathing.  At the end of which Yvette's spare body lay tucked against Franz's side, much of her flesh pressing against his.  They fit together in such odd ways, and not just their bodies, she thought.  The great Doctor Draquot studied phenomena.  He understood events by measuring them -- their duration, electrical output, how much light was produced or how much matter was lost.  She, Yvette, understood everything through the heart.  She firmly believed it was the open path to her heart that attracted the departed.

Franz had fallen asleep.  His even breathing scented the night with brandy and a faint trace of the cigar he'd smoked after dinner.  His body smelled faintly of sweat and her own perfume.  She'd order a bath hauled up in the morning, she thought as sleep overtook her.  Mutual bathing was great fun.

Someone in the room spoke, a coarse bark of a sound without recognizable words.  Yvette sat up abruptly as though her bedmate had poked her.  She reached for him and asked, "What is it, love?  Are you having a bad dream?"

Yvette's hand fell on emptiness.  Franz no longer lay beside her.  She peered around the room looking for him.  The gaslight outside on the street a half block down provided dim light, but all she could see were the ghosts of her furniture in gray, blurred outlines.

She gasped.  A man sat on the loveseat.  In the grayed room he had the supernatural smoldering light of a spirit, but seemed flesh and bone.  He hadn't been there a moment before.  She'd swear it.  He was not Franz.

The stranger flicked a finger in the direction of the fireplace.  Flames leaped.  Fear pulled up Yvette's scalp and lifted her hair.  It was magic . . . or horror.

"Who are you?" Yvette cried.  "Where is Franz?"

The carrion odor returned, a near unbreathable gas, the same stench that had burned Yvette's lungs when Lazarus haunted them last year.  Oh God, the evil haunt had returned after all.  "Where is my Franz?  What have you done with him?"

Lazarus laughed in shocking hacks.  Rising to his feet from the loveseat, he came to stand at Yvette's bedside.  She cowered but didn't try to escape.  There was nowhere to go.

The Lazarus manifestation looked an ordinary gentleman in expensive evening clothes.  The dim gaslight from the street glinted off blond hair and profiled an aquiline chin and nose.  The air became more saturated with stink.

"'Your' Franz, is it?" he said, his voice cutting sharply like the bread knife her father used in his shop.  "Such a lucky man, that Draquot.  Come, Yvette.  I'll show you what I've done with him."  A cold hand took Yvette's and dragged her unresisting out of bed.  "Come," he said again and tugged her.  It took them five steps to reach the fireplace, and at each Yvette pulled back and was jerked forward.

"You sent me to Hell," Lazarus continued, that elegant face thrust into hers.  "Do you have any idea what Hell is like?  It's the inside of the sun, the surface of the moon.  It's all emptiness and you're the only thing that fills it.  There's no one else there, no one to either love or hate.  Just you.  No one but you."  Lazarus's hungry eyes examined her face, seeking for some effect from his words.  What he saw seemed to satisfy him.  "Look!" he commanded.  He forced Yvette's head down with hard hands.  She looked into the fire and saw what Lazarus had set ablaze on the grate: Franz Draquot's severed head.  Fire crept up his cheeks in narrow bands of flame and blisters.  His thin hair just ignited.  Faint heat radiated from the fire onto her cool bare skin.

It was illogical.  Yvette knew that in some tiny place in her head.  There was no blood, nothing else burned in the fireplace and raw human flesh would make poor fuel, but the shocking sight of her beloved's decapitated head overcame logical functioning.  Yvette screamed.  She closed her eyes to hide from the horror.

The monster's arms surrounded her.  She fought them.  A hand tried to cover her mouth.  She bit it and twisted away, as lithe and slippery as a snake in her nakedness.  She tried to run away and stumbled and fell against the love seat.

The room had grown much darker.  The only light left came from the horror in the fireplace.  The Evil One abetted His servant with a cloud of blindness.  Lazarus easily captured her again.

A familiar breathy voice spoke in her ear.  "Yvette, wake up!  Wake up!  You're sleepwalking!  Open your eyes.  Look at me!  You'll have your neighbors here in another minute!"

Lazarus tried to trick her with Franz's voice.  Yvette knew this demon too well to be fooled.  She knew his horrible stink and his crackle in the air, even if she couldn't see him in the black room.  "No!  I command thee in the name of the Most Holy God and Jesus His Son to return to the pit of demons!"  She struck out with her fists.  Lazarus grabbed them and bound them behind her back.  She couldn't move.

"Yvette, it is I, Franz.  I swear it.  Open your eyes, love."  Franz was dead.  Yvette despaired and surrendered to her fate.  She made a strange discovery:  Her eyes were indeed closed.  She opened them.

Early morning light filtered through the windows.  Franz's lapis blue eyes hovered inches away from her own in a head still very firmly attached to his body.  His brow, furrowed with worry, was un-blistered and white in the pale light.

A dream.  It had all been lying dream.  Yvette collapsed into Franz's arms, sobbing relief.  "Thank God you are alive!  Lazarus has returned.  He has tormented me with visions of your death.  We must warn Passepartout and his friends!"

**************.

August 1840, Castle Konigsthor, East Prussia

Lightning flashed from cloud to cloud.  A cannonade of summer thunder rattled the windowpanes in the room that had been assigned to Phileas and Erasmus Fogg.

Rebecca, standing at their window, exclaimed, "Oh, nice one!  But still not quite up to Shillingworth standards, I'm afraid.  I've seen better."

"Becs, can you bring that candelabra over here, please?" Erasmus asked.  "I can't see if I've got Phil fixed up right."

Rebecca picked up the five-candle brass candelabra from the table where their study books piled high and brought it over to the bedside stand.  Erasmus knelt on the bed so he could look his much taller brother in the eye while he pulled, tweaked and tucked Phileas's clothing into order.

"Ouch!  That hurt!" Phileas exclaimed and jumped back out of Erasmus's reach.  Raz's tugs had pulled a strand of his long black hair.  It had strayed into his collar.

"Oh, you're such a bust-up, Phil," Rebecca observed behind him.  She had on a pair of Erasmus's trousers and a short cloth jacket.  Her copper hair fell down her back in a single, thick braid.

She and Erasmus had already eaten in their rooms.  Phileas would dine downstairs with the adults.

Rebecca had come from her room next door to see if she could help with Phileas's nightly struggle into his evening clothes.  He had a ways yet to go.

Phileas smirked as he gingerly stepped back over to the bed and let his brother resume his ministrations.  "A bust-up?  Wherever did you hear that, Rebecca?"

"Uh, I don't know."  Phileas would scold if she revealed that she'd been idling in the servants' hall again.

A hand knocked on the door.  "Master Fogg?  Are we ready yet?"

"He's almost ready, Harry.  He'll be there in a minute," Rebecca answered for him.

Sir Boniface's valet Harry had been assigned to attend Erasmus and Rebecca as well, but children made the confirmed bachelor of fifty-two years uncomfortable.  They'd set up a truce with him early on -- if he didn't bother them, they wouldn't bother him.  So far it'd worked out nicely, and Phileas, when it suited him, provided cover.

Finally satisfied, Erasmus asked Phileas to spin around.  Instead Phileas stepped over to the cheval glass on the other side of Rebecca.  He turned his back to it and tried to look over a shoulder to observe his backside.  The twisting movement pulled his jacket out of alignment with his shoulders.

Phileas spun around on tiptoe, arms out, then stopped, folded an arm to his chest and bowed to an imaginary partner.  His short black evening jacket and gleaming white smallclothes made him look rather like one of the storks performing some sort of ritual mating dance.  His cravat added to the effect by choosing just then to fluff up around his chin like a feathery ruff.

"How do I look?" Phileas asked and tugged his cuffs down.  They'd begun to creep up.

Erasmus sighed.  "You'll pass.  You'd better hurry."

"I'll pass, is it?  Oh well, you're probably right," Phileas pulled at his jacket lapels and tried to re-settle the garment on his shoulders with a wag of his head.  "Thank you, Raz."

He walked to the door, but turned before opening it.  "Do be careful, you two."

"Oh, Phil, it's not like we're trespassing.  We're just exploring some more in the basements.  We've got candles and lucifers and chalk and everything. I've even got one of the knives out of Bec's trunk if we should run into a rat."  Erasmus held up a sheathed Scottish dirk half as long as his arm.  "We'll be back before you are."  For the right price, Phileas could be quite a good sport, thought Erasmus.

"Just be careful!  If anything happens to you, it's my bum that'll be birched, you know!" Phileas added as he walked out the door.  "And no lock picking!"

"Right-o!" Erasmus called after him.  The last admonition had surprised him.  Did Phileas know the plan?  Or was he just guessing?  Phileas was an awfully good guesser.  Or had Rebecca's mouth once again got ahead of her brain?  He looked to her.  "What did you tell him?"

"Nothing!  You know Phil, he's better than a gypsy with a crystal ball."  She fished in her pocket and held up a tiny buttonhook.  "I brought my hook.  We'll get through that door tonight."

Loading her own pockets with chalk and a small tin of lucifers, Rebecca handed Erasmus one candle and tucked two more in the pockets of his dark jacket.  As usual, he'd changed into appropriate dress for the occasion – for this escapade, his oldest traveling outfit, a bit short in the leg and no great loss to his wardrobe.

"Well, what did you bribe Phil with tonight, Raz?" Rebecca asked.  Last night it had been polishing his shoes for the rest of the trip.  Rebecca had promised to help and at one shoe apiece it wouldn't take them long.  It had only taken five minutes tonight.

Erasmus stood with his hand on the doorknob, giving Phileas time to clear the stairs.  "Nothing special, just the answers to those maths he's been working on all week," he answered.

Rebecca's lips indicated her skepticism.  That wasn't enough of a trade.  What else had Erasmus promised him?  Phil and Raz kept secrets from her all the time.  It wasn't fair.  She was a Fogg too.  "Did you promise to give him the iron arrowhead we found last night?  Tell me you didn't!"  After all it had been Rebecca's fingers that found it.  She still bore a cut as proof.

The arrowhead had been sticking out of the locked wooden door that ended their exploration of the previous evening.  Tonight Rebecca's little buttonhook would get them past that blockade.  Rebecca had an especial affinity for almost any type of lock.  If she'd been born a boy and in a poor family, she'd be a lock-pick by now.

Erasmus had his ear to the door.  He waved for her to be quiet.  He nodded, satisfied and stood back.  "Ready?" he asked.

"Yes, yes!  Get on with it!"

Erasmus opened the door a slim crack and stuck his head out.  With a cry of, "Let me through!" Rebecca pushed past him and almost made it into the hall.

With his free hand Erasmus grabbed her braid.  "Hold on!  We have to do this right.  Spies always reconnoiter first."

"Then I'll do the 'noitering!  Give over, Raz!"  She pulled her braid free from his hand and stepped out into the dark hallway.  Hugging the wall like close kin, she sidled quite dramatically in the direction of the servants' staircase.  Erasmus snorted in disgust.  He closed the bedroom door behind him and followed.


	2. Chapter 2

1862, London, St. James, No. 7 Savile Row

At two a.m. Passepartout sat up in his bed, lit a candle and checked his great-grandfather's watch.  Rain pattered on the roof over his head.  It also fell on his window, both inside and out as he'd left the pane open.  A cold breeze shivered the muslin curtain and the smell of rain drifted into his small room.  The temperature had dropped a great deal since bedtime.  Passepartout cranked the window closed.  Stepping to the door he peeked down the stairs.  A rim of light still showed around Mr. Fogg's door.

Last evening Master had complained of starch in his nightshirts.  He'd tried every one of them on, pulling them on and off with angry jerks.  Passepartout hadn't starched them, but before he went to bed he'd washed each one of them fresh, even the clean ones.  Passepartout put soda in the rinse in case a residue had irritated Mr. Fogg's skin.  It had looked red and feverish for two or three days.

Three nightshirts hung in the kitchen to dry.  Master wore the one made of softest butterfly silk.

His Baron's skin had been tender.  The laundry maid had rinsed his clothes with soda every washday.

At 2:30 Passepartout fluffed his pillow.  He noticed Aunt Louisa's picture hung a trifle askew.  He arose and straightened it.  His skin raised goose pimples in the chill air of the room.

Last night Mr. Fogg had spent an hour at the dinner table, slashing his chicken into wounded fibers, aligning his peas in regimental rows and stacking his baby carrots into battle towers.  He didn't eat a bite, but drank three glasses of wine.

At three a.m. the valet arose to use his chamber pot.  Rain continued to pick at the roof and window.  He checked his watch then peeked out his door.  Mr. Fogg had gone to bed.

Master had spent yesterday afternoon writing letters, some of them two or three times if one judged by the crumpled balls of paper snowed on the floor.  When Passepartout stooped to gather them, Mr. Fogg kicked the balls away with a cry of, "No!  Leave them be."  Passepartout retreated to the hall until Mr. Fogg called him back and apologized.

His Baron had never written letters, except secret ones to spies.  For shipyard business he'd employed a secretary, a thin man with a parrot beak nose.  The Baron's spy letters had always been short and he'd always known what to write.

Rarely had the Baron apologized to Passepartout.  There had seldom been cause.

At 3:30 Passepartout drank a glass of water from his pitcher.  Even with the window closed, the room had continued to cool.  He added another blanket to his bed.

Yesterday morning Mr. Fogg announced he'd be at his solicitor, Mr. William Edwards, Esquire, until noon and left in a hurry.  Two hours later Mr. Edwards's messenger knocked on the door and asked Mr. Fogg's whereabouts.  He'd failed to appear for the appointment.  As he'd served Mr. Fogg his luncheon, Passepartout mentioned the visitor.  With a quick aversion of his eyes Master explained he'd been delayed at the 'Change.

The Baron had lied even more often than Mr. Fogg, but never to Passepartout.

At four a.m. Passepartout yielded to fate.  If he couldn't sleep, he'd work.  On the window the rain clittered, clattered and fell some more.  Passepartout re-lit his candle and dressed.

When he stepped into the hall he saw that the rim of light had returned to Mr. Fogg's door.  He stopped there and raised his hand to knock and ask if Master needed anything, anything at all.  Changing his mind, he went on to the kitchen.  Master knew how to ring the bell.

In November of 1862, Number 7 Savile Row, London, England, rejoiced in one hundred twenty-two years of continuous occupation; a respectable age, even for a house.  On rainy nights like this, its arthritic joints creaked and popped.  Other sounds could be heard as well, if one but listened.  The rain pittered on the window, of course, and at the southwest corner a drain clattered as the downpour gurgled through.  And on the third floor, Passepartout's bed creaked and rattled.  Three or four steps sounded, each one distinct as if the man attempted to control the creak of the floorboards with slow, deliberate moves.  His bed rattled again.

Fogg got out of his own bed and stood for a moment in the chill bedroom, listening for another stir on the third floor.  It was really quite remarkable how well he could hear movement in Passepartout's bedroom, and he had always rather enjoyed the reminder that he wasn't alone in the house.  But Passepartout might very well have gone back to bed since for the moment silence once again reigned.

Fogg's fingers fumbled at the buttons of his nightshirt.  He pulled the garment over his head and carelessly tossed it on the floor.  Cool moist air blew in from the half-open window and washed over the bare skin.  God, that felt so much better.  He'd been suffocatingly hot.  Stepping to the window, he threw it fully open and leaned out into a night that glowed from light reflected off the low clouds overhead.

At night this time of year there wasn't much to see out this window.  The windows of the other buildings stared at him in demented emptiness.  A skeletal tree hunched over a patch of soil that would bloom next spring in modest profusion.  Right now it lay fallow, invisible in the shadows.  Fogg closed his eyes to block out the distraction of vision and explored the night with his remaining senses.

Hard rain peppered on his skin as sharp as small caliber shot.  He raised his face.  It struck his eyelids and cheeks.  Slightly warmed by running over his face, the water dripped off his chin.  The temperature felt just a few degrees above freezing.

The rain had cleared the air of most of the coal smoke.  The night smelled of London – richly fetid with living things and beastly harsh with the coal tar so ingrained in the bricks of the surrounding buildings it would never wash clear.  The scent of decaying oak leaves drifted up from his garden.  The gardener was due by to rake and remove the drift later this week.

A street or two away, probably on Regent or Haymarket, carriage wheels rattled on cobblestones.  It was a little too early for traffic from the train station.  Might be a drunken gentleman on his way home.  A few houses away a baby cried in the night.

All Fogg's senses agreed.  This night held no mystery, just cold and rain.  And everywhere nearby, sleeping people.

Something shifted inside him.  He almost . . . he _smelled_ fear, a funereal bruised flower scent, decaying, sick at its heart.  There was always much fear in the City.  Everyone had secrets to hide.

And . . . and he _felt_ warm and yielding affection snuggling to his bare skin.  And pink!  It looked pink inside his eyelids!  A mother up with that crying baby?

Another smell, the stench of sulfur, the cold steel of a blade.  Evil.  Rage.  Oh lord, a murder.  Fogg pulled back into his room and closed the window.  No, no more.  He couldn't handle any more.  Feelings that weren't his.  Emotions that smelled.  He'd never decided whether he should believe in them at all.  He just let them flow through.  They were and then they weren't.

Fogg rubbed his wet arms.  The skin was hard and rough.  Rain dripped through the hair on his chest, down his body and off his legs.  His scrotum contracted to protect his testicles from the cold.  So cold.  Whatever had possessed him to stand naked before his bedroom window?  He lifted his robe from its hook and put it on.  His stiff fingers fumbled at the gaslight's igniter key until he finally managed to twirl it.  With a tiny scrape, the flint struck the steel.  The flame brightened and hissed faintly and shadows fled to wherever shadows go.

Fogg massaged his deadened fingers to coax back sensation and contemplated the remaining hours before dawn.  Sleep had refused to oblige him and shorten the night.  He would return to his remaining letters.  Pulling out his desk drawer, he contemplated the little box that held Rebecca's new ruby bracelet, seeking inspiration for the hardest letter of all those he must write.  Harder than the humbling letters to Her Majesty, Prime Minister Gladstone, and Chatsworth, harder than any of the others on his list.  One of the hardest letters of his life.

How could he explain von Bresslau's mission to Rebecca?  The dilemma he'd wrestled with the past three days?  Would she understand Fogg's choice?

She'd loved his father.  That was more than he could say, and she deserved the whole truth in this matter.  To know what he did and why.  He selected a fresh sheet of paper, opened the bottle of ink, and -- dipping his pen -- he began to write.

Often he stopped, chewed a knuckle and struggled with a word.  Time went by.  Discarded balls of paper piled up on the floor.

Fogg paused when he heard Passepartout's step outside his door.  He turned and looked at it expectantly, but his man didn't knock.  The footsteps moved on down the stairs.  Fogg returned to his writing.

He heard the front door open and close and arose to go to his door and inquire, but paused when he recognized the brush of Rebecca's skirts in the downstairs hall.  _Home early from Scotland, then, love?_ Fogg thought.  _Thank God.  Let me just finish these letters.  I need to ask you something -- something very important._

Fogg sat down at his desk again.  The rest of his letters would go quickly now that Rebecca was home.

A domesticated monster dominated the small kitchen at No. 7 Savile Row.  It rested on clawed feet, the sole occupant of the west exterior wall.  A long smokestack neck stuck through the wall and out to the garden.  It belched black coal smoke into a wet London morning.

Rebecca Fogg sat at the worktable about six feet away from the monster chuckling at Passepartout's new joke.  Of course, a well-bred gentleman would never have told a lady such a joke.  But at home Rebecca did not play at lady, and Passepartout's gentlemanliness was all instinct, not breeding.  He loved to make Rebecca laugh.

"So the Lithuanian shepherds are laughing at the Prussian general because he picked the ugliest sheep?" Rebecca said.  "Oh dear, that is so cruel, Passepartout!"  She hid her face in her hands and shook her head, then looked again at his snorting face through her fingers.  "Hmm, but true.  So true.  I've known quite a few of those chaps that dim.  Especially the ones that never get off the Continent."

Passepartout opened the monster's chrome-grilled mouth and pulled three pieces of toast onto a tray.  To the toast he added sliced cheese, butter and conserve and laid the feast before Miss Rebecca.  Conversation ceased.  The valet returned to the laundry.

Rebecca had arrived from the train station a half hour.  She'd been tired, disheveled and faint from hunger.  Not an exaggeration.  Truly faint, mind you.  Practically staggering.  And dear sweet Jean had left his laundry tub immediately to fix her a breakfast.  He was a genius.  Even at six o'clock in the morning and in the midst of his washing he'd provided her a tasty meal.

That only left one to ask why he was up.  The hot range and pile of damp laundry testified he'd been up at least two hours -- since four o'clock in the morning, well before the usual hour, even on laundry days.  Phileas would be abed for another two.  When he wasn't carousing, Rebecca's cousin arose at eight so dependably one set clocks by him.

Perhaps she ought not be here.  When she traveled, Phileas often entertained his ladies at home.  "So, Passepartout, why are you up?" Rebecca asked.  She indicated the ceiling and Phileas's bedroom with her teacup.  "Does he have a visitor up there?"

She could go on to a hotel and tell Phileas about her new assignment in the early evening, one hoped in time to recruit his help.  Without Phil along it promised to be a total bore.  Observing a warehouse, indeed.  Sir Jonathan, her superior at the Secret Service, must be losing his touch, to have fetched her back from Scotland for that.

Passepartout's smile turned upside down.  "No, Master is alone."  A strange reaction.

On the monster's cook top a pair of flatirons heated.  Jean went to the range, slipped a wooden handle on one and picked it up.  He licked a finger and tested the temperature of its plate.  The spittle sizzled.  Too hot.  He moved both irons to the coolest corner of the cook top.  He set up the criss-crossed drying rack behind the range and spread some of Mr. Fogg's undergarments to dry.  He tested the flatiron again.  Still too hot.

Just when Rebecca had decided Phileas must be out on a bender -- Passepartout seemed more worried than anything else -- the man found his voice.  "Do you think Mr. Fogg ever get angry enough to fire Passepartout?"  He'd addressed his question to the range, his back to Rebecca.  His trim beard peeked over his shoulder; the quirked bow of his soft, full lips expressed his unspoken questions:  Did you overhear that, Miss Rebecca?  What do you think?  Would he?  Would Mr. Fogg ever do that to his Passepartout?

She'd heard him.  "Has Phileas called you 'idiot' again, Passepartout?  I shouldn't worry about it.  He's always a trifle out of humor about something or another."  _Phileas isn't just on a bender,_ Rebecca thought.  _Seems more of a rampage._

Passepartout shook his head.  He slipped the wooden handle onto the flatiron and took it to his pressing board.  "No, Miss Rebecca.  No 'idiot'."

"What then?"  Passepartout's mood had plummeted to the kitchen's scrubbed floorboards.  Something was obviously wrong.  She could not believe Phileas would maliciously threaten to fire Passepartout, even in a rage as tall as the Tower of London.  "Come now, Jean.  You can tell Aunt Rebecca."

The valet's iron ran rapidly back and forth across the nightshirt as he spoke.  "Mr. Fogg, he make this secret.  You know how he is.  It not big important secret, except to Passepartout.  It's just he not say my Baron has come back to London."  The clean steamy smell of hot cotton drifted to Rebecca's nose.

"Oh, really?  Baron von Bresslau?"  Passepartout nodded miserably and lifted the iron away.  He'd completed the first nightshirt, ruffles and all, in under two minutes, folded it in a handful of seconds.  He laid it in the basket for return to Mr. Fogg's room.

The first iron returned to the range.  The second iron went to work on the next shirt.

So von Bresslau was back in London, was he?  _Oh dear,_ Rebecca thought.  _Poor Phileas._  That explained the ill humor and secretiveness.  He feared Passepartout would resign and return to the Baron.  Phileas would be devastated if he did.  So would she, for that matter.

Passepartout continued, rushing the iron across the shirt.  "Yesterday at market I run into Neville Smythe.  You don't know him.  He's the Baron's butler.  He not like Passepartout much, but we know each other long time."  He set the iron down and wiped at his eyes.  "Neville say Master dine with Baron at the Club three days ago.  I stand there with my mouth open and feel like an idiot -- an idiot, just like Mr. Fogg say."

It hurt Rebecca to see Passepartout's expression.  Atlas holding up the world could not have looked more burdened.

The iron went back to the range to re-heat.  Passepartout picked up the kitchen's brown betty teapot from the range's warming shelf.  Bringing it and his worry to Miss Rebecca, he freshened her tea, then sat down and folded his hands over his nose.  "Mr. Fogg growl at Passepartout over little things.  He not let me bathe him.  He not eat yesterday at all and he drinking all the time."

He dropped his hands into his lap.  "I so want to see my Baron.  He gone four years – so long.  But Master, he's . . . I'm afraid to ask him.  Maybe I lose job."

Rebecca picked up Passepartout's hand.  His work had made his fingers hot and damp.  "He's not angry, Passepartout; I promise you that.  He's afraid you'll leave us for your Baron."  She paused and looked into the soft brown eyes.  "You won't, will you?"

"Leave, Miss Rebecca?  I just want a visit, not . . ."  One of the five signal bells over Rebecca's head, the one marked "Master Bedroom," interrupted Passepartout.  "I must go," he said.  "Master up early."

Rebecca held him back.  "Passepartout, I will talk to Phileas for you.  We'll get you a holiday, but you must promise not to leave us.  Agreed?"

Passepartout's smile re-flipped back to its normal configuration – curled up at both ends.  "Oh, Miss Rebecca.  I never leave Master, not for anything in the world."

The valet went to fill a wash basin pitcher from the range's hot water reservoir, and Rebecca stood up.  "I'm going to my room.  Tell Phileas I'll be in to talk to him, will you?"  She glanced at the large pile of Phileas's laundry.  "And if you would be so kind, please send a note around to my laundry maid.  I'll have a bag for her this evening."

Passepartout nodded as he hurried down the hall.  "Certainly, Miss Rebecca.  She be here.  I tell."  Half way to the staircase he turned back to her.  "And thank you.  Thank you so very much."  He clicked his heels and bowed in respect.  He whirled about again and hurried away, his smile lighting up the morning.

Rebecca sighed.  She'd been up all night on the train and it looked as though she wouldn't be abed anytime soon.  But Passepartout deserved his visit.  What on earth was possessing Phileas to act such a cad?

"So now Chatty thinks you're an exorcist, does he?" Phileas said as he tried to read the letter Rebecca had given him.  Passepartout's tucking, buttoning, poking and pulling forced him to pass the letter from one hand to the other every few seconds.

The valet stepped away and picked up the black jacket chosen for the day, cut in the le dernier cri of fashion, if Rebecca was any judge.  At least it was cut in a style she'd never seen before.  Phileas handed back Rebecca's letter and slipped the jacket on.  Together master and man carefully adjusted its drape from shoulder to thigh.

A faultless fit and ruler straight lines.  Perfection.

Rebecca watched Phileas's morning ceremonies from the bedroom's small divan.  She lay under a quilt she'd pulled off the bed and wore a cozy flannel dressing gown and ermine slippers.  Her plans for the day involved extensive amounts of sleep.  "I suppose we've only ourselves to blame," she responded.  "All that rubbish you fed Sir Jonathan about Lazarus's evil spirit possessing my body and trying to kill him . . . "

"Not rubbish, my dear, every word of it true, but of course you don't remember.  You were, after all, the one who was possessed.  Do be careful, Passepartout, that stung."  Phileas scowled down at the valet who in tugging at the jacket had fouled it into his master's gold bracelet.  The bracelet in turn had cut into Phileas's wrist.  "Perhaps you would have preferred to hang for treason?"

"Well, I'm just saying that it's rather turned Sir Jonathan's mind.  Lately he's had an obsession with ghosts.  Last week Tony Burns told me he's been assigned two haunted house investigations since September.  I've been expecting my turn any day."  She pulled the quilt up snugly under her chin.  Phileas preferred a bedroom cold enough to preserve food.  She did too, so the cool didn't usually bother her.  Must be a chill from fatigue.

While they talked Passepartout drifted about the bedroom fetching and placing each adornment on his master -- cufflinks, pin, watch and chain.  He'd corked his usual patter and worked as silent as a shadow.  Rebecca watched him.  His every move quivered with hope.  Phileas didn't seem to notice.

Passepartout held up two neck cloths for consideration.  His master pointed at the black.  Both black jacket and neck cloth -- apparently her cousin was to have an all black day.  Rebecca couldn't say she much cared for the look he and Passepartout had created -- as drear as the grave.

Or maybe that was Phileas.  Elegant clothes aside, he looked just awful this morning.  Cadaverous even.  He'd disavowed illness, but his eyes glinted feverishly and were sunk into his head.  She knew that look:  It meant Phil hadn't slept in days.

"So what did Tony find at his haunted houses?" Phileas asked.

"Smugglers both times," Rebecca answered.  "Diamonds the first, I believe.  Can't remember the second."

"Well, that's something.  We'll probably find the same thing in Southwark tonight."  He ducked his head to let Passepartout settle the tie around his neck.  "Make it simple, Passepartout," he told him and the valet began the windings and wraps for one of his own specialized knots.  Phileas stood quietly with his eyes closed, awaiting the final flourishes of his toilette.

Rebecca arose, dropping the quilt on the floor.  Brrr, damn it was cold, but the knot tying would immobilize Phileas for a minute or so.  Time to plead the valet's case.  She stepped behind Passepartout and placed her hands on his shoulders to hold him firm.  No good would come if he panicked and ran off now.  The valet flinched under her touch but continued his work.

"Dear cousin, I have a favor to ask."

At the moment Phileas could only grunt, "Hmmm?"  He did not open his eyes.

"It involves Passepartout."

This response was more of a snort.  Passepartout's head rotated as he glanced up at his master's expression, which hadn't changed.  Phileas's eyes remained closed.

"I think it's time Passepartout had a holiday.  I can't remember his last one, can you?"

Another grunt.  Phileas's eyes slitted open.

Rebecca prepared for the crucial final sentences.  She took a firmer grip on Passepartout's shoulders.  She cleared her throat.  "Jean tells me he has an old friend in town."

Finishing the tie, Jean dropped his hands.  He stood immobile under Rebecca's grip, eyes down, a petitioner before the lord of the house, seeking the grace of a holiday.

"I see."  Phileas's eyes had opened.  He looked back and forth from Rebecca to Passepartout.

"I thought tonight while we were Bankside, he could go out on a visit?"  Bloody hell, somehow she'd let that slip into a question.

Fatigue smudged Phileas's expression and she couldn't quite make it out.  Then his words made expression reading a pointless exercise.  "No, no, he can't.  I've an errand for him that may take quite some time."

Phileas stepped to his bedroom's small desk and selected three letters from a tall pile.  He held them, spread in his fingers like a hand of playing cards, seeming to consider which to discard and which to play.  He cast away one, then a second.  His selection, the third, he rubbed with his fingers, testing its shape and the texture of the stiff envelope.  He reached a decision and turned back to Rebecca and Passepartout.  They still stood together, watching him, too stunned to move.  Phileas proceeded to make matters worse.

"If you would be so good as to unhand my valet, Rebecca?"  Her lips tight in anger, Rebecca squeezed Passepartout's shoulders to let him know this battle wasn't over yet.  She stepped away and went to the door.

Phileas's words stopped her.  "I would like you to stay a few moments, cousin."

Likely he wanted to scold her for interfering in his business affairs.  If he thought she would remain for that!  "Phileas, I am very tired.  If you don't mind . . ."

"Please stay . . . please."  Now this Phileas expression she could read, at least in part.  It was need, nothing more, nothing less.  She returned and sat down on the divan, and kept her temper under rigid and frozen control.  She watched Passepartout, afraid of what might happen next.  Something lurked behind the valet's stricken eyes.  _Has he decided to resign?_ Rebecca wondered.  _Would Passepartout leave them despite his promise?_

Phileas handed Passepartout the chosen letter.  "I want you to take this to Baron Harbin von Bresslau.  He's recently set up housekeeping in Islington Gardens on Panton Street.  Stay there for his reply.  Do you understand?  Do not come back to me without his answer, Passepartout.  Stay for as long as it shall take."

Despite the rain that continued to bounce off the windows, at the conjunction of the words "take" and "von Bresslau" the room's temperature shot up several degrees.  Passepartout was chortling by the time Phileas reached the phrase "Islington Gardens" and when he said "for as long as it shall take" the valet kissed his master, much to that man's demonstrated distress.  Rebecca's icy frown dissolved into a giggle.  She laughed out loud and, leaning back on the divan, she lifted her legs and tucked them together under her gown.  The quilt lay ignored on the floor.

Phileas's smile was reserved, politely decorous.  His toilette complete and his dignity re-acquired, he leaned on his chosen stick for the day and awaited an opportunity to finish his instructions.

"Yes, Master.  I take message and stay for answer.  Yes, sir."  Passepartout bounced in the general direction of the door.  He paused.  "You dine at club today?  You eat a good breakfast?"

"Don't worry about the household, Passepartout.  Just deliver the message.  We'll manage.  Go.  Go now.  It's urgent."  The valet rushed out of the bedroom door and up the stairs to his room.  They heard his wardrobe door, followed seconds later by his footsteps again on the stairs.  A few minutes of pause and distant clangs as Passepartout dealt with damping down the range and hanging the last of the laundry.  Finally footsteps tapped in the back hall and the servants' door slammed.

Throwing his stick back on the bed and flipping out his coattails, Phileas sat down heavily next to Rebecca on the divan.  She dropped her feet to the floor and scooted over to give him room.  He sighed.

"It was awful of you tease us like that, Phil."  Rebecca said, poking him in the ribs.  He smiled over his shoulder at her but didn't respond.  Leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, he rested his forehead on fisted hands.  His black jacket pulled tight across the broad span of his bent back.  Rebecca reached out and stroked the bunched muscles.  "Don't worry.  He'll come back, you know.  I made him promise, written in blood and all.  No, come to think of it, I believe it was actually written in tea."  Phileas didn't respond to her silliness.

Something troubled him beyond Passepartout.  Rebecca leaned forward and pulled one of his hands out of a tightly clenched knot.  "Phil, what's the matter?"  It had only been an hour or so since she'd said nearly the same thing to Passepartout.  Without her how would this household ever hold together?  She'd been gone only three days and here she had two men to sort out before she could get any sleep.

Phileas looked at her hand, squeezed it and brought it to his lips for a kiss.  He sighed again and leaned back still holding on to her hand.  "It's good to have you home, cousin.  What did you find in Scotland?"

For Phileas, avoidance tactics generally meant something serious was afoot.  She might have to force the issue.  Rebecca removed her hand from his.  Leaning on one hand, she tucked her legs up under her and rolled to her other side, so that her knees were to the back of the divan and her bum was at its edge.  To put her face squarely before Phileas's so that she could see every change in his look, she leaned across in front of him and braced herself against the arm of divan.  Now she had him well and thoroughly trapped.  His smile acknowledged the capture.  Rebecca answered his question.  "Oh, lots of sheep, tons of mud and a Prussian spy."

Ah, fixed his interest with that.  "Oh, good show!  Catch him?"

Now it was Rebecca's turn to sigh.  "No, no, got clean away.  Gave him a nasty fright, though.  He'll be sporting a new dueling scar in a few weeks, right there."  With an evil grin, Rebecca traced a mark above Phileas's eye.

Phileas's answering grin accompanied a shake of his head.  Rebecca's bloodthirstiness was legendary in the Service.  That particular cut would have blinded her opponent with his own blood in a matter of minutes.  No wonder the Prussian had fled.

A yawn snuck up on Rebecca and overtook her mouth and jaws before she realized she was under siege.  She apologized.  "I'm sorry, love.  It's not the company, it's the hour."

"Yes, and I'm keeping you up.  I'm sorry, but I would very much value your thoughts on something.  If you would be so kind."  Phileas chewed his lower lip, raised his eyebrows in a double bow of request.  He placed his hand over hers where it rested on the divan and squeezed.

"Of course."  She expected a question about some matter at Shillingworth Magna, perhaps even investing in an indoor plumbing system.  One could always dream.

Not even close.  "What are your thoughts on revenge?" Phileas asked.  He glanced at her face, quickly away, then back again.  "Just in general?"

This whole morning reminded Rebecca of one of the Service training exercises Phileas had put her through – the one where he'd worn her out hiking in the Highlands all day; then without giving her a chance to rest, he'd set up a series of tactical problems.  She'd done pretty well on that.  Even Phileas had said so.  "Revenge?  My thoughts?  'Vengeance is mine saith the Lord' is what comes to mind, but I can't say I fancy that particular take on it.  I don't have enough patience to let the Lord arrange my revenge for me."

"Then you favor its pursuit?"

"If the cause were just, I suppose.  An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, and all that.  On the other hand, I've always thought people who spent their lives pursuing vengeance to be great fools.  Focusing on one's anger seems so antithetical to joy."  Rebecca paused, studied her cousin's face, the half-opened green eyes.  "You _are_ going to tell me why you're asking, aren't you?  Or am I back on the training grounds?"

Shaking his head, Phileas squeezed her hand.  "It's nothing of import, sweet.  I'm just so very glad you're home."

He moved to stand up.  To get out of his way Rebecca pulled back, pivoted around and dropped her feet to the floor.  She sat squarely again on the divan.  "Come," Phileas said.  "You must be tired, and we've got that haunted warehouse in Southwark tonight.  I'd best put you to bed."  He offered her his hand.

"Bed is it?  Can I get you to read me a story, then?" she asked.  Taking Phileas's hand, Rebecca began pulling herself to her feet against his weight and muscle.

Phileas braced himself and pulled back until Rebecca stood up.  "Cousin, I never read you bedtime stories.  And, unh!, perhaps you should go on a weight reduction diet.  You seem to have gained a stone on this last trip."

With an outraged cry of "Come back here, you rascal!" and a pillow as her chosen weapon Rebecca chased her cousin from his room and down the hall.

A few minutes later Fogg returned, plucking at a few feathers adhering to the previously immaculate black.  He paused a moment at the mirror to capture the last few and used Passepartout's clothes brush to sweep away any on his back.  Then with a tug at his lapels, he cowed the jacket's lines back into place.

The stack of letters from Fogg's desk disappeared into a pocket, and he picked up his coat, gloves, hat and stick off the bed.  He spared one last glance out the window at the gray and liquid morning.  The night was over.  The day had begun.


	3. Chapter 3

1862, Paris, Latin Quarter, the intersection of Rue Monge and Rue Des Ecoles

Three years ago Professor Franchot had told Verne how fortunate the Romans were to be dead.  They didn't have to suffer his Latin -- while the good professor, on the other hand, did.

Verne had always done well with living languages, like English, that he could practice by just visiting a café.  With Latin he'd struggled.  Dead dialects were so, well, dead.  But he'd written out a few of his favorite Latin mottoes and tacked up them among the other oddments on his walls.  His favorite had been a quote from Horace, "Aut insanit homo aut versus facit" -- he's either going crazy or he's writing a verse.

At the moment Jules Verne was doing both.

Despite the half bottle of wine he'd drunk at Nadar's party a few hours ago, or perhaps because of it, words tumbled off Verne's cold fingers and onto the paper.  He shivered with the divineness of it all -- the inspiration, the passion, the icy temperature of the room.

#The day whispers frost to the night ...#

Across the room the bed's ropes creaked as its occupant shifted.  Burgaud had once again forced him out of bed.  Not that his new roommate was a big man or pushy; more of a mouse, and actually even a little shorter than Verne.  Verne glanced up from his song lyrics as Burgaud shifted, but his bedmate's blue eyes were still closed.  He had merely rolled over.  The short brush of his silver blond hair made a bright contrast to the yellowed pillow cover, individual hairs glistened in the lamplight.

Pulling his blanket closer about him, Verne rubbed his nose and looked around the room.  A rank odor underlay the room's usual cold musky mold and tickle of dust.  Something dead had begun to decay in a wall, or perhaps the chamber pot needed to be emptied and cleaned.  Of course, with the two of them there, the pot was used twice as often.  Tomorrow they would swap chores.  It would be Burgaud's turn to dump slops while Verne was to fetch the fresh water.  He decided to wait for morning.

For much of this term Verne's life had followed the old pre-Count Gregory rhythm of class and study, an ordinary one-two beat.  Boringly ordinary, almost like walking.  Over the two past years Verne had gotten used to a living at a dead run.  Associating with the Foggs required one to be fast on one's feet.  Verne glanced wistfully at the window, rather hoping for the glare of Aurora's navigation lights and Phileas Fogg striding down her gangplank to whisk him away to a crisis of earth-shattering proportions.

Verne hadn't seen the Foggs for nearly two months.  He missed them.

#Supple evening slips from my hand ...#

Verne had not been able to sleep in his own bed in two days, ever since he had agreed to share expenses with Burgaud and the little freshman had moved in.  The appartement had only the one bed.  That meant the two students shared, at least until Madame Ludek the landlady could be persuaded to install another.  And she'd probably want to raise the rent for the additional furniture, so for now they made do.  Even splitting the rent could help only so much, and Burgaud had paid just enough for the remaining three weeks of the semester, with promises of more after the Christmas holiday.

When the necessity of sharing had been put to him, Burgaud had hesitated a moment but then agreed readily enough to bundling on the narrow mattress, recounting how until a few years ago he'd shared a bed with his three brothers -- two of them at the head and two at the foot -- until they'd all grown so big they kicked each other out.

As eldest son, Verne had never slept with anyone at home, but he'd thought he could manage, especially if it meant halving the rent.  He'd been wrong.  Every time Burgie – he'd insisted on being called Burgie – rolled over, Verne woke up.  In two days Verne had slept no more than three hours.

#The deep hours of tomorrow call to my #... my what?

Verne threw down his pen.  The rest of the song had vanished.  Something about the endless circle of time, wasn't it?  He gazed morosely at his shaded oil lamp, the wick burning at full since they could afford it.  Also, for the first time in months he had a thick stack of fine paper under his hand and a large full bottle of ink.  If he were hungry, there was bread, wine and cheese in the cupboard.

He hadn't eaten so well since his last trip on the Aurora, when Passepartout had prepared that wonderful rack of lamb.  Even Fogg had conceded his valet a "well done."  And Passepartout had been unable to resist replying:  "But is rare, master!"  They'd all laughed at the horrible pun, even Fogg.  When had that been?  Before the beginning of the term, nearly three months ago.  They'd been returning from Russia and, unlike tonight, it had been most wonderfully warm.

Verne decided that he'd like a bit of cheese.  Just to settle his stomach from the wine.  He should eat while he had the food, and this song looked like a dead set of lines.  Maybe a bit of the good cheese would rekindle the magic.  With the boning knife one of Madame Ludek's prior renters had filched from a butcher, Verne cut a generous slice of mimolette from the orange ball.  The glorious mild tidbit melted in his mouth, with not a hint of mold or decay.  Verne sighed in gustatory bliss and sliced another.

Nadar had made it sound so reasonable -- a roommate to help with the rent, a bright fellow too young for bad habits.  And Verne had needed the money to finish out the term.  He could get more from pére at Christmas, but until then his pockets were to let.  Felix could be so persuasive.  "Look at the boy, Verne, he won't even eat his share of the food."  Verne wondered where Nadar had found Burgie and what benefit he'd derive.  Nadar did nothing without a personal and usually pecuniary motive.  If the man were not such an artist with that magic camera of his, Verne would have thought the man lacked a soul.  He certainly lacked morals.

Unfortunately, this arrangement with Burgie was not going to work out.  Verne's younger brother Paul was more mature than his new roommate.  At least Paul was no longer shy about his body.  Burgie pulled the curtain every time he used the chamber pot and had even demanded that Verne turn away while he changed to his nightshirt and climbed into bed.  It seemed childish when the narrow bed brought them so close together that Verne could feel Burgie's sharp elbows pressing his back.

And that was the crux of the matter:  Two people absolutely could #not# sleep on that bed.  Not when one of them was Verne.  He was too used to rolling about freely and flinging out his arms.  This whole business made him feel squeezed.

Still ... it would be hard to give up the little luxuries -- the extra lamp oil, the paper, the cheese -- even for the sake of regaining his bed and his privacy.

And it wasn't Burgie's fault.  Actually the little fellow was quite sweet.  He'd been thrilled to find a place to stay after his former roommate had married and moved out.  Last night when Nadar offered a toast to their new arrangement, Burgie had thrown his arm around Verne's shoulders and addressed him as "tu."  Burgie had seemed a little drunk, but the chummily intimate personal pronoun had surprised Verne, who had never "tu'd" anyone in his life outside his family ... except Passepartout, of course.  And he and Rebecca sometimes used "tu" when Fogg wasn't about.

That last memory gave Verne a warm glow.  If only Rebecca could see him as a man ...  She treated him more like a brother -- and a baby brother, at that.  But it was the middle of a chill night, and he needed any warmth he could get.  It wouldn't hurt to fantasize a little.  If only he were sleeping with the luscious Rebecca, her red hair fanned over his arm, her lips yearning to reach his ...

The next line of his song floated into Verne's mind.  Feverishly, he dipped pen in ink and applied it to the paper.

# The deep hours of tomorrow call to my heart ... #no better,# sing to my heart of ...#

1862, Paris, Rue du Mont-Cenis

"Well, you cannot go to Verne's appartement like that, Yvette," Franz had pointed out.  He was right, of course, and there was no help for it.  Desperate as Yvette was to fly to the aid of the Foggs, the barest essentials of accoutrement would still require at least a half hour of hard work.

First, there were the pantalette and the chemise, all over the naked skin.  Well and good.  Next, while she could still bend over, there were the stockings and the shoes.  That required the long-handled shoehorn and the buttonhook, both of which unfortunately were mislaid.  Franz and she both had to hunt for them for several minutes.  Fastening the sixteen shoe buttons one by one stole still more time, and proved an effort when her hands trembled so.

She had a bad moment when an evil smell floated through the room, but it was just Franz about his business.  She lit a candle and it quickly dispersed.

The corset took the longest, even with Franz interrupting his shaving to help her pull and tie.  His fingers slipped on the strings in his haste.  He took the time, however, as he always did, to put his own special, complicated knot at the bottom and to kiss the back of her neck.  "You're mine," he reminded her.  "I've tied you to me."  Franz could be so distracting.  And really, to suggest that a lady her age had another lover!  Such a flatterer.  Maybe they could take just a few minutes ... No, her corset was already on and Franz nearly dressed.  She knew from experience that it would be dreadfully uncomfortable for them both.  She pushed him back and blew a kiss.

"Hurry, love."

The final pieces went on with good speed – the corset cover slipped on quickly over her head; and she simply stepped into the stiffened crinoline that stood in a corner of the bedroom like a huge birdcage waiting for an occupant.

"Yvette, love, are you ready enough?  Shall I fetch a cab?" Franz asked as he helped her finish the fastenings of her burgundy dress, she using the hook and he his fingers to slip the little round buttons through their loops.

Franz had cut himself in two places while shaving with his straight razor.  Small beads of blood welled and Yvette dabbed at them with a towel, nodding impatiently in answer to his question.  "Yes, go.  Georges should be at his stand by the hotel.  He owes me for that last séance with his dead Aunt Ive.  He has the black and silver affair with a bay horse, one white stocking on the left fore.  Perhaps you've seen him?  No?  Well, he does prefer the daylight crowd."  As he left, Franz acknowledged her final words with a hand wave.

With fierce swipes of her brush Yvette half-tamed her gray streaked hair into a bun.  She hid the resultant calamity under a large hat trimmed with black ostrich tips.  Slipping on her jacket, she had just picked up her black gloves when Franz returned.  He panted from his run up and down the stairs.

While Yvette pulled on her gloves and buttoned up her jacket, Franz took a moment to lean against the wall and catch his breath.  When she looked to be ready, he held the door open.  "Yvette, your cabman won't wait long!"  His breathing had slowed down but he still felt a little light-headed.

Georges had turned out to be a rather surly middle-aged man.  As Yvette had promised, he'd been pulled up before the hotel one block down.  When Franz crossed the street to hail him, a coal dray pulled by two grays nearly ran him down.  In the chill morning the team's breath had puffed white.  They'd so resembled dragons breathing fire that Franz had looked for the flames.  Their driver had cursed an equally thick cloud of foul words.

Georges had agreed to come only after Franz invoked the name of Aunt Ive.

As Yvette was about to leave, she stopped and turned back.  "The address!  I must find Jules Verne's address!"  She opened the top drawer of her highboy and riffled through a rat's nest of scrap paper and cards.

"Yvette!" Franz rasped.  Georges might take off at any moment.  A cabman wouldn't lack for customers on a morning like this -- chill with a threat of rain.

A cry of triumph.  "Here!  Here it is!"  She held up a small card and started toward the door, but halted abruptly once again.  "Wait one moment more!  I must go prepared for the worst."  She ran back to the highboy, her skirts bouncing up and down with her long, un-lady-like strides, and pulled out the bottom drawer.  From a welter of chemises, pantalettes and corset covers she lifted out her crystal ball, a perfectly milled quartz orb as big as Franz's fist and as clear as fine glass.  She slipped it into a black velvet bag.

Franz waited at Yvette's door, alternately peering down the flight of stairs -- to confirm that Georges was still there -- and looking up and down the hall in case Yvette's neighbors should wake and thrust out their heads.  He wasn't so much exasperated by her delays as afraid -- afraid of Lazarus, afraid of whom his next victim would be.  Yvette had been but one.  Lazarus would not stop at one.  Lazarus had never stopped at anything.

Phileas Fogg had executed the man Lazarus had been and was probably in the greatest danger.  Vengeance seemed to be a fire that burned quite as brightly in Hell as it did on the corporeal plane.  But Lazarus would strike whomever he could, however he could.  Rebecca Fogg, Jules Verne, himself, they were all in jeopardy.

Yvette halted at Franz's side and placed a gloved hand on his arm.  She saw past his knitted brows and pinched eyes and into his dread.  "Don't worry, Franz.  Lazarus must obey God, as do we all."

"Of course, Yvette.  You and I, we've stopped him before."  Franz gave her a quick kiss and took her hand.  They sped down the stairs.

1862, Paris, the Latin Quarter, the intersection of Rue Monge and Rue Des Ecoles

Burgie didn't want to get out of bed.  Verne had tossed for hours last night and kept them both sleepless until the small hours.  Waking up had not been a pleasure.

Yes, there it was again: Someone pounding at the door of the appartement.  A husky male voice called, "Monsieur Verne, are you there?"

Burgie sat up, moving carefully in case Verne still slept -- although that seemed unlikely given the racket.  As it turned out, the care had been less than pointless.  Jules Verne hadn't even been in bed.  He sat at the table, his head resting on his folded arms, one of the thin blankets wrapped around his shoulders.  Verne's eyes were firmly closed, but in the gray morning light Burgie could see his eyeballs shift back and forth under shadowed lids.  A scowl moved around the sleeping face, furrowing his forehead and twitching his lips.  Verne seemed deep in a dream.  It didn't look like a nice one.

It must still be an unholy early hour.  #Surely too early for callers,# Burgie thought, #even in this decadent excuse for a city.#  Soft daylight nipped and tucked through a thin curtain that covered most of the large window.  A drop of condensation ran down the cold glass.  Perhaps eight o'clock.  A full day not yet at its full strength.

The door rattled again.  The callers were being most abominably loud.  Verne's landlady Madame Ludek would be here at any moment.  Burgie glanced at Verne again.  "Verne?"  #No, much too shrill.  Don't forget your pitch.#  "Verne?"  An octave lower.  #That's better.#

Verne still hadn't stirred.  Too much wine, most likely.

Burgie debated the merits of waking Verne versus answering the door.  The latter seemed more expeditious and by far the wiser course since Madame Ludek in the grand tradition of all landladies had a viperous tongue.

Quickly slipping on trousers, Burgie buttoned up the fly while stumbling barefoot up the three steps to the rattling door.  A young, heedless student wouldn't bother with tucking in the nightshirt, so Burgie left it hanging out.  It bunched up under the braces.  While breath didn't steam in the chill, it came damn close; and Burgie wished this young, heedless student had paused to slip on a pair of socks.  The floor was enough to frostbite one's toes.  Too late now.  Best chalk it up to artistic sacrifice, like the butchered hair, and dispense with these callers and get back to the bed.

A husky woman's voice spoke the names "Fogg" and "Passepartout" on the other side of the door.  Burgie hurried to lift the latch and pull it open.

When Verne didn't answer the door at once, Yvette grew frantic.  Franz tried to point out the earliness of the hour, but Yvette would not be comforted.  "I'm not sure this is the right thing," she exclaimed for the third or fourth time.  "What can young Verne do?  It is Monsieur and Mademoiselle Fogg and Passepartout who are in the gravest danger.  Perhaps we should try to cable them in London."

The door opened behind Yvette.  She stopped speaking and spun around with a rustle of her wide skirt.  The entry framed a young man with pale hair.  Much shorter than average height, he stood on small, bare feet and looked as though he might contract a chill to his soul through the floorboards.  Clearly he was none too pleased to answer the door on such a frigid morning.

Yvette panicked.  Were they at the wrong address?  Had Verne moved?  "You're not Jules Verne.  Where is Jules Verne?"

Franz's laid a comforting hand on her shoulder, "Yvette, calm down."

Despite his half-robed state, the blond young man had pretty manners.  "Madame, Monsieur Verne sleeps.  I am his new roommate, Burgaud Burdett.  If you would like ... "  Burdett's high tenor voice verged on soprano.  The cold must have put a chill on his throat.

With a sharp movement of her shoulders, Yvette moved past him, her boned crinoline forcing the boy back and away from the door.  "He is here?  He sleeps?  We must wake him immediately!  He cannot sleep unprepared!  Lazarus will steal his wits!"

She was down the three steps and half way to Jules before the blond youth spun about.  With an exclamation of anger, he started after her.  Franz stayed him with a hand and a plea.  "My apologies, Monsieur Burdett.  But this is urgent.  The Lazarus spirit is most malevolent, and Yvette intends Monsieur Verne no harm.  She only means to wake him.  I am Doctor Franz Draquot.  This is Madame Yvette Soretsky."

Burdett's head wavered between Franz's introductions and Yvette attempts to shake Verne awake.  "A malevolent spirit, you say?  You mean a ghost?"  The boy's voice had been even, but his eyes were as round as coins and his face very pale.

Franz nodded gravely, "Indeed, a ghost."  The boy needed the truth, and Franz was pleased to see Burdett remained steady.

Yvette deposited her crystal ball on the table, the quartz clunking solidly on the oak through its black velvet bag.  Pulling up a chair, she sat down next to Verne.  She patted his exposed cheek and whispered entreaties for him to awake.  Verne did not respond.

"Mon dieu!" Yvette cried.  "Franz, Lazarus has him even now!  I can smell his evil!  He is here!"

Verne reacted violently to the name of Lazarus.  His arms flailed across the table in a blind sweep.  He knocked a small stack of closely written paper to the floor.  A large bottle of ink followed.  Thick sinuous snakes of black ink ran across the cursive writing and onto the floorboards.

Verne thrashed about.  He came perilously close to oversetting the table and dumping his guttering lamp and Yvette's crystal ball alike on the floor.  She leapt up and snatched them away and stood back in frustration.  Franz hastened to join her, followed more slowly by Burdett.  Yvette's eyes pled with Franz.  Love had done what it could.  It was time for the doctor of ethereal science to make a cure.

Very similar events had occurred just a few hours ago, when, in her frenzy, slender Yvette had nearly overcome him; and Franz knew Verne possessed considerably more muscle. "We must prevent him from harming himself."  Franz indicated for Yvette to set down her burdens and take one of Verne's flailing arms.  He grasped the other.  They had to hold on tight as Verne became more and more agitated.  "Do you have any water?" Franz asked Burdett, who stood an arm's length away.  The boy spun quickly on his bare feet and fetched a sloshing tin bucket from a dark corner.

"Is he having a fit?" Burdett asked, but Franz had not a moment to deliver a professional opinion.  With one hand he let go of Verne's arm to reach for the bucket and said, "No.  We need to wake ... "

He didn't finish the sentence.  Whatever nightmare Lazarus inflicted on Verne reached a crisis.  His eyes blindly open, Verne attempted to surge to his feet.  He successfully pulled out of Franz's one-handed grip, but Yvette didn't yield her handhold.  She pulled back hard to prevent an escape.  Too hard.  She over-balanced and together she and Verne tumbled to the floor.

Verne's chair flew out, striking Franz in the shins with a side stretcher.  It nearly knocked him to the floor.  He cried out in pain and staggered.

Burdett, who stood further away, hopped back to preserve his bare toes from being smacked by the falling chair.  He swung the water bucket out at arm's length in a wild attempt to balance.

The chair landed on the floor with a rattle of ancient, dry oak.

Some of the loose sheets of paper on the floor had scudded away from the falling bodies.  Others clung to Yvette and Verne, tenuously adhered to their clothes and skin by wet streaks of ink.

Verne's nightmare had apparently proceeded to violence.  Rolling onto Yvette, he buried his knees in her puffy crinoline and throttled her.  His eyes were empty of either sense or hope.  Wordless despair keened past lips drawn unbearably tight.  The hands around Yvette's throat squeezed tighter and tighter.  Yvette's arms struck the floor in fruitless efforts to rise.  Her eyes bulged.

Franz limped a few steps closer to Burdett and snatched the water bucket from his hand.  "Stand back!"  If this didn't work, he'd have to strike Verne down – but that would leave the boy still vulnerable to Lazarus's horrors and dangerous to them all.  Verne needed to #awake#!  Franz tossed the half-bucket of chill water into the mad face.

Verne's fingers dug into the uneven scars of Gregory's disgusting throat.  The brutal half-metal face laughed up at him.  In a few seconds one of Gregory's guards would cut Verne down, but he wanted to die in this position, with Gregory in his grasp.  He squeezed and squeezed ...

Instead of the searing pain of a bullet, Verne sputtered from the shock of a cold bath.  Icy water ran through his hair, filled his ears and dripped off his chin.  He raised one hand to wipe water off his face.  Strong hands captured that arm and locked it behind him.  "Burgett, if you would grasp his other arm, perhaps we can pull him away from Yvette."

Burgett?  Burgie had been murdered with the others ...  "On the count of three – one ..."  Beneath him the Count's monstrous raw head blurred into that of a woman wearing a comically bedraggled hat trimmed with sodden ostrich feathers.

Yvette Soretsky.

Absurd.  They had died, all of them – the Foggs, the students at La Sorbonne, every householder in the city ...

"... two ..."

He recognized the voice, a near-asthmatic wheeze.  He'd listened to it lecturing on ethereal science for hours:  Doctor Draquot.  The doctor was dead too.  Every Parisian man, woman and child ... every living creature ... every soul ...

Verne's heart pounded wildly.  He sobbed.  Nearly a million people must have died.

"... three."  With rather more leverage applied to his right arm than his left, Verne was pulled back and up, away from whomever lay on the floor.  He reluctantly staggered to his feet.  He felt a chair against his calves.  He sat down.

He didn't fight or even look to his captors.  He closed his eyes.  He didn't want to know why they hadn't killed him.  He'd wanted to die, and they hadn't obliged.  He sat in the chair and concentrated on breathing.  In, out.  His lungs continued to function, no bullet yet.  In, out.

"Ici, Verne.  Your towel."  Burgie's squeaky tenor was followed by the feel of coarse cotton against his face.

The voices, they were all so perfectly imitated.  Surely even the League wouldn't go to such lengths to fool him?  Not now, when it didn't matter, when he'd die within minutes.  And what was one more death among a million?  Verne opened his eyes and looked.

Before his chair Burgie stood on bare white feet proffering a dingy gray towel, the very same one Verne had used daily since arriving at Madame Ludek's.  His mother had embroidered the initials "JV" at one end and given it to him in a gaily-wrapped box when he'd left Nantes for his first year at La Sorbonne.  Burgie's brows were knitted in concern.  His fair skin looked bluish, and this room was damned cold.

Burgie … alive.  He looked further.  Madame Soretsky sat on the floor, straightening her hat and wiping water from her face.  Sopping paper clung to her dress here and there, and her hands were splotched with black ink.  With each swipe of her face she left streaks.  The madame, Burgie, and -- he looked to his right -- yes, Doctor Draquot held his arm.  The good doctor looked into his eyes, nodded and let go.

Sooty Parisian daylight crept through a steamed window.  Verne had long and intimate acquaintance with every brick, bare board and curl of pealing plaster around him.  He seemed to be in his appartement, not Count Gregory's lair.  But the Count had made Verne's eyes lie to him before now.  He needed one more confirmation.  One wet, shaking hand reached out and touched Burgie's chest.  The small warm body felt solidly real.  Burgie stepped away with a clearing of the throat.  Verne's hand left a smear of ink.

Real.  Burgie was real.  They were all real.  He sagged and Burgie steadied him with a hand.  "I saw ... I thought I saw Paris die.  Everything.  Gone."  But it wasn't.  It had been a lie after all.  Verne's hands flew to his mouth as he tried to suppress the great sobs of relief that threatened to choke him.  He gasped, "Oh God … oh God."  Tears ran down his face and he rocked in his chair.

Burgie kept a light, reassuring touch on his shoulder and after a few moments Verne's composure began to return and he noticed that Doctor Draquot had helped Madame Soretsky to her feet and into the other chair.  He was whispering to her and patting her hand.  Their presence could only mean one thing.  "Lazarus?" Verne managed to croak as he wiped his eyes with his towel.

Burgie had only one thing in mind -- warm socks.  At the moment the most important thing in the world -- more important than this mission or the homeland -- was a pair of dry, warm, woolly socks.  Sitting on the edge of the bed, Burgie pulled on the thickest pair from the drawer.  Luxury.  Toes began to ache with returning sensation.

Verne, the doctor and the madame were engaged in a vociferous discussion regarding the Lazarus ghost.  Something fantastical about the poisoning of dreams.  But this had been no rêve à deux, or rather quatre, and all three seemed worried about the Foggs; that caught Burgie's attention.  Burgie's assignment had been to report anything regarding Phileas Fogg; and until today there had been nothing.  Verne hadn't even so much as mentioned the name, although the briefing had made it clear that he and the Foggs were very good friends.

Verne repeatedly apologized for the ruin of Madame Soretsky's couture.  The hat and dress didn't look couture to Burgie.  More like a copy of a popular Worth imitation of two seasons ago.  Maybe three seasons.  Burgie had been in training for two years and had had little time since to study the latest fashions.  Besides, Verne's trousers and shirt had also been ruined by the ink and water, not to mention Burgie's nightshirt.  Only Doctor Draquot had escaped without a blot.

Verne picked up the paper on the floor as he talked.  With it he sopped up what water and ink he could and stuffed the whole soggy mass in the tin bucket.  Occasionally he peeled a sheet off the floor and held it up to the light.  Some of these he set aside on a dry piece of floor.  He shook his head over others and threw them in the bucket.

The floor near the table looked to be alive with black beetles and baby snakes.  There would be hell to pay -- or at least the damage deposit -- when Madame Ludek saw the stains; not that such pedestrian matters need concern Burgie anymore when this assignment seemed to be progressing into a whole new phase.  That made Burgie happy.  There would be significant information for the next cable to London and a wonderful opportunity to be noticed in a positive way.

Moving in with Verne had been an ambitious gambit and resulted in endless complications, such as sharing the man's bed, but it looked as though the risk would soon pay off.  It had stretched Burgie's powers of disguise to the utmost, but such things looked good in one's record.  This would be the first entry in Burgie's.  It almost made the sacrificed hair worthwhile.  Almost.  Burgie's hair had been clear down to the waist.  And as beautiful and soft as fine silk.  Everyone had said so.

"The fact remains, Doctor Draquot and Madame Soretsky, that you cannot leave for London right now – and I can.  And you #will# agree that time is of the essence?" Verne asked earnestly from his kneeling position on the floor.

The doctor had wrapped Madame Soretsky with the one dry blanket they had left – Burgie's, from off the bed – but she still shook like the last leaf on a winter tree.  Madame Ludek didn't burn a high enough fire downstairs for the flue to warm Verne's room a great deal, and what heat there was radiated out the thin roof.  "Bring me my b-b-ball, Franz, if you please.  It's over there."

She gestured to Verne to come sit beside her.  Between chattering teeth she said, "Doctor Draquot, his magnificent machine sucked all the energy from Lazarus.  The monster c-c-can't steal bodies anymore, so he steals dreams."  The doctor placed a black velvet pouch in her hands.  She held it out to Verne.  "Open it.  Take the crystal into your hands.  We must learn if Lazarus threatens Monsieur and Mademoiselle Fogg."

Verne held up both hands in denial.  "Madame Soretsky, I am sorry but …"

"Take it.  It must be you.  The crystal must vibrate to your heartbeat.  Many times you have dreamed in the same house as the Foggs, no?  I have not.  And this is all about dreams.  Take it out of the bag, Monsieur Verne."

The doctor added his own exhortation.  "She succeeds many times where I fail, Verne.  Science doesn't have every answer, and some things we must do on faith.  It's worth a try if you care what happens to your friends."  The doctor paused.  "Trust me, this time there are no hidden wires."

Verne looked at the doctor and licked his lips.  His serious face settled into etched lines of resolve.  "Well, as long as there are no wires, I might as well try."  An ink-stained hand reached into the bag and pulled out a clear ball of what seemed to be glass.

Yvette stroked the backs of Verne's hands, but carefully avoided touching the ball.  "Hold it close to your heart, Monsieur Verne.  Caress it softly like a lover.  There, see?  It knows what you want.  It is a good crystal.  I have filled it with much love.  Your touch brings it alight."  A pinprick of white floated inside the ball, or did it?  Burgie wasn't sure.

Verne moved his hands to hold the ball before him like a viewing lens.  Encircling it with only his thumbs and forefingers to permit the light to pass through, he gazed into its depths with a frown.  The heads of all four leaned close.  "Do you see them, Monsieur Verne?"

Verne's face transformed.  "Yes, I see Fogg.  He's with Rebecca."  He laughed.  "They're fighting with pillows!"

"Fighting?" Burgie asked.  It must be Phileas Fogg of whom Verne spoke.  Burgie could see nothing within the ball.

Verne looked up and laughed.  "A mock battle, Burgie!  A pillow fight!  Fogg's fine!  Rebecca's fine!"  Verne looked into the ball again and gasped.  "It's changing.  It's nighttime!  Oh no!  Oh god!  Rebecca!"  Verne stood up so fast the back of his head smacked Burgie in the chin.

After that matters proceeded rather rapidly, with Verne vowing to leave for the coast on the next train out of D'Orsay station.  If he made it, he'd catch the evening mail packet across the Channel.

Burgie tried to detain him, protesting that if Verne left now, he'd fail his contract law class, not to mention the third-level French history (although that class had no final and, as Verne pointed out, the required paper had already been written and turned in).  Verne had frowned.  "Burgie, I've repeated Professor Homére's law class so many times, I think I could teach it myself.  He'll pass me just to make sure I don't come back.  I'm making him look bad as an instructor."

After that Burgie kept quiet.  Short of an abduction there seemed no way to prevent Verne's journey; and Burgie had no orders to abduct, just observe and report contacts with Phileas Fogg.

The doctor took Madame Soretsky home in a carriage.  Promising to apprise them of future events, Burgie had requested and received the addresses of both the madame and the professor's laboratory.  They hadn't seemed to take it amiss, and Burgie had the beginnings of a plan.  It might even result in a promotion.  One hoped.

Ink had soaked through every layer of cloth Verne had been wearing, requiring him to strip to the skin.  Discreetly circling the table to present a back to the disrobing, Burgie sliced some cheese and bread for a petit déjeuner that Verne could carry away.  But a mirror hung at just the right angle to observe, and the eyes #would# look, seemingly of their own accord.  Burgie sighed and tried to focus on slicing bread.  Verne would soon be out of Burgie's sphere of interest.  It would be most unwise to become attached.

Verne didn't have many clothes.  Half were now an ink-stained ruin and the other half he was donning.  Thus he had no need to pack.  Things moved faster and faster:  A flurry of last minute instructions and apologies for leaving Burgie to deal with Madame Ludek, a quickly dashed cable for immediate dispatch to London, a retrieval of pound notes from behind a loose brick in the wall, two of which he left for expenses and the cable -- "At full rate, please, Burgie.  I want Fogg to get this by noon" -- and Verne was out the door.

A shower of heavy raindrops fell on the roof over Burgie's head, sounding much like a fall of lead shot.  Burgie leaned out the window, watching for the last sign of Verne.  There he was! running head long, trying to make the eleven o'clock train.  Verne stopped half way down the block, turned and waved to Burgie, then continued his sprint up Rue Monge in the direction of the Seine.  The rain shower seemed to chase him.

Burgie pulled out the cable Verne had left to send Fogg.  Striking a lucifer on an exposed brick, Burgie put the flame to one edge and let go of the paper.  The small wisp of fire drifted through the raindrops and down to the street.  The last bit floated for a moment over the head of an old woman on her way to market before it was consumed.

Closing the window, Burgie knelt and retrieved a blank sheet of paper that had strayed far under the bed.  At the table she dipped a pen in the last dregs of ink in the bottle and began to write a new cable:

"Lazarus threatens Fogg.  Verne bound London.  Request two men to assist me Paris immediately.  Hilda Burgetta Von Rolt."


	4. Chapter 4

Castle Konigsberg, 1840

#Well, I'm not going back to my bedroom until I see the other side of our door,# Rebecca assured herself.  Erasmus, the big sissy-britches, might lose courage and turn back, but #she# would stay the course, slay the dragon and win the buried treasure of Castle Konigsberg.  No matter what the price, no matter how terrifying … 

Oh no!  There it was again!  The dragon's unholy howl, the piercing roar of …

"Blood-y!" Erasmus exclaimed just ahead of her.  "That thunderstorm is loud, eh, Becs?  Must be right on top of the castle!"  He pulled out his handkerchief as he paced around a few steps, head down.  "Ah, there it is!" he exclaimed and squatting, he delicately applied the piece of fine cotton to the corridor's cold floor, dabbing at the chalk mark guide they'd made last night.  Then he straightened and went to the junction's other branch.  There he drew an arrow pointing off into an unexplored blackness.  "That does it!  Now Phil can look all he wants for more arrowheads, but he'll never find ours."  He turned back to his cousin.

Rebecca had come to a full stop behind him and stood looking up at the low roof of the windowless passageway, listening to the storm's booms and rumblings with a far-off, unfocused look to her eyes.  Gone off on one of her fantasies, Erasmus deduced.  Nothing frightened Rebecca; but she did love an adventure, even one she had to make up.  Probably dreaming up some great battle or another, complete with cannons and musket fire.

"Oh do, hurry along, Becs.  We haven't got all night."  When she didn't respond, Erasmus grabbed Rebecca's hand and tugged her along into the un-marked corridor.  They needed to get to that door so Rebecca could work her magic on the lock.  That was the whole point of tonight's exploration, wasn't it?  Getting through that door?  That, and maybe just a few more arrowheads.

Thankfully, Rebecca didn't choose to pitch one of her little battles; and as they walked along hand-in-hand, she waved her candle toward the left wall.  "The booming sounds are coming from behind there, but I don't think it faces outside.  I'm not so sure it's thunder, Raz."

Erasmus glanced at the unbroken brick wall.  He didn't question her assessment of their location.  Too many times he'd had to depend on Rebecca's bump of direction to navigate them home.  He squeezed her hand.  "Probably a tower funnels the sound – you know, like the kirk bell tower at Shillingworth.  Remember how it booms in a storm?  I dare swear it shakes Sir Hugh's bones!"

"I suppose so.  But I think whatever's making that noise is right on the other side of the wall."  She remained silent for the space of several steps.  "I think it's a dragon.  My chambermaid says the kitchen pot boys see a dragon all the time, coming and going from the back side of the castle."

When with Rebecca, Erasmus frequently found occasion to roll his eyes heavenward.  "Re-bec-ca!"  He drew out the name into a long three-note reproach.  He tugged at her hand.  "That's silly.  Dragons!  And I'll bet it breathes fire too!  You're getting too big for that sort of thing.  Phil shouldn't have let you listen to that tazelworm story."

Rebecca frowned at her cousin.  Erasmus's company had lost its savor.  With a determined tug she freed her hand and skipped ahead, carrying the candle and their light with her.  Their goal was just around the next turn and if Erasmus was so grown-up, he oughtn't mind being down here in the dark.  Without warning she took off at a run, yelling, "Beat you there!" back over her shoulder.

"Becs, come back here!  Becs!  Becs!"  Erasmus's voice faded out as Rebecca rounded the turn at a gallop and came in sight of an ancient wooden door, bound with rusted metal and studded with short little pixie arrows.  At least that's what she'd called them until Erasmus said they were crossbow quarrels.  She hadn't yet decided if he was teasing.  Arrows that argued?

Erasmus had shed his dignity and broken into a run.  She could hear the fast thunk of his footfalls catching her up.  Since Rebecca had slowed to a walk, they arrived at the door more or less together.

"That was unkind of you, Rebecca," Erasmus complained as he tugged his jacket back into its proper position and raked a hand through his dark curls.  "I'm supposed to keep my eye on you."

"Well, if you can't keep up with me, take your eye out, and I'll carry it around for you!"  Rebecca glanced at Erasmus's slightly flushed face, the bright eyes.  He did not much care for the dark.  She relented.  "I'm not kind.  I'm a Fogg.  It's a problem in the breeding."  It was a favorite saying of Sir Boniface's.  Erasmus pressed his lips together in disgusted response.

"Here," she said and reached into Erasmus's pocket, pulling out another candle and lighting it from her own.  "Now you have one too."

With a sheepish acknowledgement Erasmus took it from her.  He'd forgotten he had the extra candles and lucifers.

She turned back to the door.  "What do you think's in there?  I think it's a room full of Crusader gold."

After his scare, Erasmus welcomed a new, Rebecca-inspired eye-rolling opportunity.  "What #are# you thinking?  Piles of doubloons and pieces of eight, maybe with your dragon guarding it?  More than likely it's an access to the sewer or something of that nature."

Rebecca snorted.  "A sewer door with arrows in it?  What were they shooting at?  An army of turds?  I think they were shooting at thieves.  And I'll bet there's still dead bodies locked behind this door!  Skeletons and rusted armor and … and … all sorts of horrible things."

The lowest arrow in the door was over her head.  She reached up to see if it was loose enough to pull out.  It wasn't.  Well, there was more than one way to get it.  "You owe me an arrowhead, Raz."

Although Erasmus pulled the dirk from its sheath under his belt and stepped forward to do service, he growled, "Don't start.  Phil wanted your arrowhead, and I thought it a fair price.  If you'd been there, you would have done the same.  You start on the lock, and I'll try to get us two more."

Rebecca stuck out her chin and narrowed her eyes, "Three more.  I want two.  Just in case I need to bribe Phil myself."

"Becs!"

"Two more just for me, or I go back."  Rebecca half turned to retreat.

Erasmus sighed, his opinion of her demand written plainly on his face:  "You're such a child."  But he didn't say that out loud and relented.  "Three more then.  Two for you, one for me.  Deal?"

"Deal!"  They shook hands firmly to seal the bargain then turned to their respective tasks, Erasmus holding his candle high up to study the arrows and their situation, Rebecca kneeling with hers to study the lock.

With the point of the dirk, Erasmus began immediately to pick at the wood holding the lowest arrow.  Rebecca took longer.  Last night she'd suggested stealing Phileas's powder horn and making a bomb to blow up the door.  Erasmus had vetoed that proposal, and after some thought she'd agreed.  An explosion would have brought every adult in the Castle to their secret door -- "secret" being the important word.

Rebecca knelt before the door and held her candle close to the lock, but could barely distinguish the corroded iron of the keyhole's escutcheon plate from the wood, much less discern the details of the lock.  She needed more light.  "Hold your candle lower for a moment, Raz, will you?  I can't see."

"What do you need light for, Becs?  You can't see inside the keyhole anyway."  Erasmus nonetheless stopped digging at his second quarrel – he already had the first in his pocket – and lowered his candle.  He noticed something he hadn't before – the flicker of the candlelight and the movement of the fine red hairs that had escaped from his cousin's braid.  A current of air blew around the door.  It just might lead outside.  Phileas would bribe #them# for that kind of information!

With her free hand Rebecca stroked the lock's escutcheon plate then rubbed her fingers together.  She glanced up at Erasmus.  "It's oily."

"Really?"  Erasmus had to think about that a minute.  Rebecca put her candle down, thrust her hook in the lock and delicately twisted it around, feeling for tumblers, her head cocked forward in an intense listening posture.  That's why she was so good at lock picking – she had exquisitely sensitive ears.  Erasmus wanted to get back to acquiring the rest of their arrowheads.  "I'm going to take my candle back now, Becs."

"Hmm?  Oh, certainly.  I don't need it anymore."

The lock mechanism was so old that it didn't use tumblers, it had pins or bars, but with slight pressure it yielded to her hook in much the same way.  A lock this easy to work saw frequent use.  "I think you might be right about the sewer.  This lock must be used a lot.  It's really easy to turn."

Erasmus almost had his third arrowhead free.  He tugged at the shaft, and it dropped out of the door into his hand.  "Really?  Well then, someone upstairs has a key.  Probably his majesty, the Junker."

Rebecca stopped tweaking the lock and looked up in surprise at the dark face above her, but all she could see was Erasmus's round chin.  "I thought you liked the Junker too!"

Erasmus looked down at her, then his eyes danced away quickly.  He played with the arrow in his hand.  He had a distinctly guilty look.  "I was supposed to tell you tonight, but, you know, we haven't had time and ..."  He paused, struggling.  "I'm sorry, I know you like him, but Father says we're not to be alone with the Junker anymore.  He's some kind of peddle-man.  Peddle-rast, peddle-boost, I can't remember the exact word."

Rebecca liked Junker von der Goltz.  She needed a better reason to change her mind about him than a mysterious, unpronounceable word.  "A peddler?  Like Jack, the tinker's son in Shillingworth Minor?  The Junker is a lord in a castle, Raz!"

Erasmus turned back to the door again and raised his candle, pretending to examine the next arrow to remove.  "It's not 'peddler.'"

"What is it then?"  Rebecca stood up and pushed at Erasmus.  "What is it?  You'd better tell me!"

Erasmus batted away Rebecca's next push, then stepped back out of the way.  Although he was taller and heavier, Rebecca often won their fights; and down here away from watching eyes, he felt no shame in running away.  "I don't know what it means!  I asked Phil, but he wouldn't tell me.  It must be something really, really bad.  Father told Phil and me to keep you away from him.  And like Phil always says," he paused for dramatic effect, "watching out for you is my particular post.  Phil watches out for me and I look after you."

Rebecca fought not to cry.  This was too much!  Her guardian had left her out of another family conference.  And as for Erasmus being #her# minder?  That was too much like setting a chicken to guard the dog!  "Why didn't your father call me in too, Raz?" she asked quietly, her voice trembling with anger.

Erasmus had returning to prying at arrowheads – he was working on a fourth, as there didn't seem to be any reason not to keep at it.  "That's obvious, Becs.  You're a girl and I'm the boy, and I'm going to marry you when we grow up.  So I'm supposed to protect you.  That's what boys are for -- to protect girls."

Rebecca leaned her head against the rough old door.  The tears trembled behind her eyelids.  She was #not# going to cry!  She wasn't!  She could beat Erasmus in any kind of fight, and he knew it.  Sometimes she could even beat Phileas when he tied a hand behind his back as a handicap.

And she could make her own plans for the future!  "I'm not going to marry #you#, Erasmus.  You don't even know how to throw a right hook.  Phileas has tried to teach you a hundred times."  Well, maybe not a hundred, more like five or six.

The rejection failed to deter Erasmus.  He figured he had at least four years to change her mind, although he doubted Father would let Rebecca marry at thirteen.  He'd only be fifteen then himself.  "I'll learn.  I'll tutor Phil in maths and he'll teach me fisticuffs."

Rebecca frowned up at her cousin.  "I wish him sweet luck with you."

She turned back to the lock as though declaring a closure to the conversation, but Erasmus had one more question.  "Who do you want to marry, Becs, if not me?"  Affection and a little anxiety softened his eyes.  He'd have little hope if she wanted his brother.  He had no chance of besting Phileas at anything other than maths.

Rebecca had grown tired of this marriage conversation.  Only old ladies talked so much about marriages and weddings and husbands.  Rebecca didn't even like dolls.  "I don't know, but it should be easy to find someone better than you."  She continued working quietly on the lock, but abruptly stopped and stood up.  An icky-penny, as the Vicar would have said, the obvious answer, a Grand Plan for her life!  "Yes, I #do# know who I'm going to marry!  I'm going to marry Cousin Boniface.  Then you and Phileas must call me 'mother.'"

Erasmus hadn't foreseen this possibility.  Father in the competition too!  "You can't marry Father!  He's much too old and … and … he's your guardian!"  He stammered so much he sounded like Phileas on a bad day.

"My cousin Mary Lynn Drysdale married Sir George Gooding just last month and she's only thirteen and he's forty-two.  I don't see why I can't.  Boniface is my first cousin once removed, and he's been the nicest person in the world to me.  And," she paused, for what was obviously the best reason of all, "he can beat #anyone# in a fight.  He's the best hero I know."  Rebecca's face glowed.  Why hadn't she thought of this before?

Against his father, Erasmus had no hope of ever winning Rebecca.  Left without anything to say, he turned back to the door and gave the arrow he'd been working on a final, savage tug.  It yielded to his fury, and he dropped a fourth arrow into his pocket.

"The door's unlocked, you know," Rebecca said behind him.  Her small hand reached past him and pulled down the latch.  It moved smoothly and the heavy door swung away into the darkness.  Erasmus raised his candle and they both looked in.

"Oh, pooh," Rebecca moaned her disappointment.  The other side of the door held only a junction of two staircases, the one down, the other up.  No gold or jewels abounded, no evil dragon grimaced at their invasion.  The candlelight didn't even excite a sparkle from the dull gray bricks.

Erasmus walked over to the ascending steps and looked thoughtfully up into the blackness.  His nose tested the air and he licked a finger and held it up.  He turned excitedly back to Rebecca.  "This might lead outside."  He already had his foot on the bottom step when he turned to look at his cousin.  She hadn't moved.  "Are you coming, Becs?"  Still smarting from Rebecca choosing his father for a husband, Erasmus wasn't inclined to wait.

#Trust Erasmus to make the less intriguing choice,# Rebecca thought.  She bent to pick up her candle.  She looked up and down the two staircases.  There was nothing for it.  She would have to run away.  "I have to use the chamber pot."

"Oh bother, Rebecca!  I thought you went before we left."  Erasmus looked up the stairway.  Yes, there was definitely a breeze of warmer air from above.

"I have to go again."

Erasmus stepped back down to the landing and considered.  "Well, there's no chamber pot here.  Why don't you go down those stairs a bit?"

When Rebecca had been gone three minutes, Erasmus went down a few steps, not wanting to compromise her, but worried.  She shouldn't be taking so long.  "Rebecca?  Becs?"  It seemed he'd spent a great deal of this evening calling his cousin's name.  This time there was no answer.

"Blast it, Rebecca!  This is no place for teasing!"  Still no answer.

She'd run off.  The little feather-brained female!  Now what should he do?  Rebecca had only the one candle, and it was more than half gone.  He had the extra one as well as the knife.  What if her candle went out?  What if she ran into a rat?  He doubted she'd considered any of that.  He let another minute go by, while he fumed and paced about, hoping that she was teasing him.  The seconds crept by.  He stopped and called again, "Rebecca?  For the love of God, cousin, please?"  No answer.

He licked his lips and ran his fingers through his hair.  It would take much too long for him to return and fetch Phileas.  No telling where Rebecca might get to.  He had to handle this himself.  He sternly addressed the empty air.  "Erasmus, you're supposed to watch over your cousin Rebecca.  Now get on with it."  He squared his shoulders, turned and went down the stairs.


	5. Chapter 5

British Secret Service Headquarters, Whitehall, London, 1862

"If you ask me, the old man is not right in his mind.  Haunted houses!  Ghosts!  Might as well be chasing the Guy!" A deep male voice boomed right outside the office door.  Fogg stopped his absent-minded twirling of the cylinder of his revolver and spun Chatsworth's desk chair around to face that direction.  He didn't recognize the voice.  Undoubtedly a new man.  From what Rebecca had told him, there'd been a fifty percent turnover of Service personnel since his father's death and the Service largely fielded amateurs these days.  A pity, but it should make Rebecca shine like a faceted ruby amongst common gray pebbles – not that Chatsworth paid any attention.

A second voice responded, a higher pitched male.  "Best be quiet, Chips.  Here's his office."

"He's not in it.  I just saw him upstairs.  What say we take a peek in there?  See if he really does keep a shrunken head in his desk drawer?

"No, no.  Too bloody wicked, that.  He may be peculiar, but he's the old man now.  I don't spy on my own.  But you do what seems right to you, Chippy."

No more than two men, Fogg guessed, from the footsteps that tapped down the hall.  If this Chips should open the office door, he'd best be ready with an excuse for his presence.  He returned the revolver to its holster, quickly buttoned his jacket; and -- schooling his face to a sneer -- sat upright behind the heavy desk, at full command ready.  But the footsteps continued down the hall, and the voices became muted with distance.  "I served regular Army in the Crimea and even with our hairy-scary nabob, this is easy …"

Quiet stole back into the office followed by the diminutive sounds of a calm London mid-morning in the Service's Whitehall headquarters: the patter of rain on the window behind Chatsworth's desk, the tiny creaks of the swiveled chair responding to Fogg's shifting weight, and the asynchronous ticking of the clocks that surrounded the map of Europe on the west wall.  Five of the six clocks said Fogg had been waiting for Chatsworth for half an hour.  The sixth declared the time as 4:22, as it had since Fogg's arrival.  Chatsworth wouldn't have forgotten to wind it.  The squit was far too fussy about such minutiae.  Perhaps a lackey had neglected his duties.

Fogg pulled out the revolver again.  Releasing the cylinder latch, he re-checked to make sure each chamber contained a bullet, even pulling one out to admire the shine of its brass before clicking it back in.  He didn't believe in resting the hammer on an empty chamber.  One never knew when the round might come in handy, and pistols were damned dangerous anyway.  The revolver's barrel gleamed in the light from the window behind him, and he let his fingertips explore the delicate curls of the incised scrollwork.  Beautiful, a work of art.

Holstering it again, Fogg shrugged the weight into its rightful place under his arm.  Although he'd just bought the piece, it felt like an old friend, as familiar as his cousin's face, or a cup of tea.  It had been a good choice.  He'd tried three handguns at Galmer & Sons before deciding on this one.  It had _pulled_ neither right or left when he'd fired a few test rounds on Galmer's shooting range.  All had dead-centered the target in a group so tight the holes overlapped.  And best of all, the revolver was at least four ounces lighter than any other six-shot revolver he owned.  It was an assassin's weapon, easily hidden, intended to deal death.

#Chatsworth is upstairs, hmm?  How inconvenient,# he grumbled to himself.  This little task had already taken longer than he'd budgeted and he still had to drop off his letters at Edwards' office and make sure the man understood the proper timing of the deliveries.  After Edwards, lunch at the Club and bit of cards, then a quick pop back to the gunsmith's to pick up the fifty loads they'd promised him by the end of the day.  Although he'd need only one bullet to kill his man, he liked a safe margin.  And he'd have no time for gunsmiths in Berlin.

Spending part of his last day in London lounging in Chatsworth's office wouldn't have been Fogg's first choice, but he schooled himself to patience.  Chatty would arrive soon enough.  And as Rebecca felt obligated to follow the bloke's commands, he was the best bet to keep her in England.  Fogg had never understood Rebecca's acquiescence to Chatsworth's dominion.  Usually she was a better judge of character.

Rotating the desk chair, he looked out the window.  He'd always liked the window in this office, but not for this dismal view of a brick wall.  When the room had been his father's, Sir Boniface had arranged his desk and chair squarely before the window and had always sat with his back to it, letting the light shine from behind him.  Even on common days like today, when rain and fog made London an insufferable misery, it had cast a nimbus that gave Sir Boniface an unearthly glow hard to look into.  He'd often seen his father at this desk with that daylight halo, his thick white hair glistening and his long fingers holding a pen or a piece of paper.  It had been like gazing at God.

Even though this was Chatsworth's chair now, his father had sat on its worn pads far longer and had sculpted an imprint into the leather and horsehair.  Fogg could feel the rounded ridges and troughs where his own ass and thighs wouldn't fit, as well as the shallower channels Chatsworth molded daily.  To sit here felt strange, dishonest.

It was not a very comfortable chair, at least not for Fogg.  He did not envy Chatsworth its ownership.

Fogg thought he heard more voices and footsteps approaching.  Yes, that was Chatsworth deriding a clerk in that cultured accent of his -- Jones or Johns, or something of that ilk -- for a sloppy copying job.  Good.  He'd enter his office in a moment and Fogg could initiate their little melodrama.  It was a good time to light the cigar.

From his waistcoat pocket he withdrew a corona and a small tin of lucifers.  He lit the cigar and quickly puffed it to life.  Not the best way to appreciate a fine cigar, but it was only a prop after all.  Then unbuttoning his black jacket, he arranged his long frame in a slack and insolent pose, and leaning against a chair arm, he permitted the butt of his pistol to distort the jacket line just enough that if Chatsworth looked, he would know it was there.  The new black wool ensemble moved easily to accommodate his changed posture, and today its dull black finish suited him – grimly dark, even opaque.  He hiked his feet to the desk and drew on the cigar again.  A soft white cloud of aromatic smoke surrounded him.

In the corridor Chatsworth continued to harangue his subordinate on the need for care in preparing official Service records.  #How like Chatsworth to care more for penmanship than headquarters security,# Fogg reflected.  No one knew Fogg was here.  Using the tunnel under the Navy building, he'd invaded Service headquarters completely undetected.  And apparently no one knew of the tunnel either.  Its brick walls and floor had been covered with an unmarred velvety green carpet of mold.  In Fogg's time only two or three top Service operatives and Sir Boniface had known of that tunnel.  Now not even Chatsworth seemed to know.

Perhaps his father had inferred Chatsworth's true nature after all if he'd declined to trust him in so little a thing.  Fogg knew him only too well.  He'd partnered Chatsworth exactly once, and that had ended in death and disaster.  Chatsworth had been new to the Service then, and Fogg had hesitated to ruin his career.  He should have.  He damned well should have and told his father the truth when they returned to Whitehall.  But other issues had lain between father and son -- issues whose names were otherwise Erasmus and Rebecca -- and he'd told his father nothing.  He'd let Chatsworth report his lies without contradiction.

When one thought about it, death pervaded the world.  In London's rookeries dozens, even hundreds, died every day – men, women, children.  No one cared.  What was one meaningless death compared to all those?  Even if it had been Duke Longwood's heir, and even if the fellow's only crime had been smuggling cigars, not the munitions Chatsworth said they'd find.

After Chatsworth had finished criticizing Jones at great length, the hall door opened a few inches and some final words leaked through.  "... and speak to Flitcraft about additional work, Johns.  Your output simply must pick up if you hope to maintain a position here in the Service."  Ah, Johns then, not Jones, and not long for the rolls, one supposed.

The retreating tap of feet followed an inaudible response from the hall.  The door swung open the rest of the way.

On their mission Chatsworth had exhibited hair-trigger reflexes, tending to shoot first and question whomever survived, which was how the duke's son had died.  Sitting behind this desk, Chatsworth had apparently lost his edginess.  He stood in his doorway a long, unsafe moment as he assessed first that his office was occupied and then that the occupant was Phileas Fogg.  While Chatsworth's face worked from surprise to anger, Fogg tapped the ash off his cigar into the desk's heavy crystal ashtray.

Chatsworth seemed too outraged to move.  Fogg didn't have all day.  He pointed his cigar at the puffy chest and declared in a mild tone, "Bang, you're dead."

That did it.  The rude waggery broke Chatsworth's trance.  He strode to his desk, and rounding it, stood over Fogg and shoved his offending feet off the desktop.  Fogg let them hit the Persian carpet with a thump.  Looking up at his chair's rightful occupant, he relaxed his lips into an amused smile.

If he were Chatsworth's secretary Flitcraft, he'd be posting storm warnings for the rest of the staff about now.  The bugger looked near hurricane force.  Chatsworth's high collar points gouged into cheeks that were puffing up for a good blow . . . or a pout.

Chatsworth bent over Fogg, resting his hands on the chair's arms, undoubtedly trying to look intimidating.  He creaked slightly as he bent, a small noise clearly audible at such close range.  Fogg realized he'd been hearing the same wisp of a sound since Chatsworth had stepped into the room and it puzzled him for a moment.  Something in it spoke to him of females and their underpinnings and heated nights in boudoirs with whalebone stays coming untied under his hands … 

By God, Chatsworth was wearing a girdle!  The vain pig!  And he wasn't even wearing a fashionable coat, just that same dull-as-mud double-breasted thing he wore every day.  One hardly needed a figure at all to wear such a boring piece.

Fogg couldn't keep his face straight and grinned broadly.  Chatsworth, on the other hand, had curled his lips in a reasonable imitation of a vehement snarl and demanded, "What is the meaning of this intrusion, Fogg?  I can have guards here in a …"

Fogg took a drag on his cigar then slowly and carefully exhaled the smoke into Chatsworth's face.  "No, you don't want to do that, Chatty.  In fact, may I suggest you close the door?"

At twenty-three Chatsworth had started losing his hair.  At forty-two he sported a long swathe of skin from brow to crown.  Canny subordinates observed his band of bald for an indication of his emotional state, as it colored more easily than his face.  When Fogg had blown smoke in his face, the shade shifted to an interesting mauve and he drew back sharply, coughing hard.  Eventually sounds emerged.  "I'll thank you not to call me 'Chatty,' Fogg."

"No thanks required ... Chatty."  Fogg returned the cigar to the ashtray and arose with a quick, springing movement, forcing Chatsworth to choose among stepping back, being knocked over or initiating fisticuffs by shoving Fogg back.  Chatsworth chose to step back, his first concession of power.  Fogg decided this was going rather well.  Every time he fractured Chatsworth's control of the situation, the next bit of power became easier to acquire.  By the time he left, he'd have Chatsworth licking his boots – except he'd worn shoes today.  It made a nice image though.

Using his greater height to advantage, Fogg leaned into the plump bureaucrat, trying to make him step back once more.  He let the butt of his revolver press into Chatsworth's chest, although he was uncertain whether the man could feel it through the girdle.  He could feel Chatsworth's holstered gun and the points of the girdle's whalebone stays.  Through the fog of cigar he detected the sharp aroma of Chatsworth's morning coffee and the cologne he'd used, apparently with generous abandon.  Fogg brought his face so close to the full moon visage that he could see the black specks dotting the irises of Chatsworth's small brown eyes.  He was so close he could have kissed Chatsworth's thin lips with no effort at all; he considered doing just that – to rattle Chatsworth's nerves – but his stomach protested such ill usage.  "I've come to collect on an old promise, Chatty.  You'd do yourself a kindness by closing the door.  I don't think you'll want Johns or Flitcraft to hear what I'm going to say."  Chatsworth stepped back.  Another concession of power.  Every little bit helped.

Although Chatsworth was many things – conniving and ambitious sprang immediately to mind –stupid wasn't amongst them.  He had a good memory too, especially for unpaid obligations, his or anyone else's.  He had that sort of mind, tallying things, counting, measuring.  Chatsworth stood a long moment looking up into Fogg's eyes.  Fogg saw the yardstick in them, measuring the height of his threat, the width of his intentions.  Through Chatsworth's sweet cologne and the cigar's narcotic cloud, Fogg smelled the familiar acridity of fear.

Fogg deliberately bent over, picked up the cigar and took another pull, blowing it out with drawn-out and exaggerated care, but not in Chatsworth's face.  He didn't want to give the man another coughing fit.  He needed him fit to talk.

Seeming not to realize he'd already begun his downward slide, Chatsworth still fought for supremacy.  "What makes you think you have the right to collect anything from me, Fogg?  You forfeited that when you left the Service.  I'm the Queen's man now.  And you?  You're nothing."

Ah, good, Chatsworth had remembered their little disaster and was trying to hide behind Her Majesty's skirts.  How Chatty-like.  It wouldn't do him any good.  He was lucky Fogg had a need for him.

"Oh, I have the right, Chatty.  I'll always have the right to collect on this particular promise.  You should know -- you're the one that made it.  Now please, close the door and let's talk."  Chatsworth's third concession seemed close as the imitation snarl had disappeared to be replaced by a sweaty and anxiously tight upper lip.  "The door, if you please?" Fogg asked again and waved with his cigar in that general direction.

Fogg had left this matter of the promise for so long, Chatsworth undoubtedly thought he was safe from exposure, that Fogg didn't care or had forgotten.  He'd certainly felt safe enough to taunt Fogg from his lofty position as head of the Secret Service.  Fogg hadn't forgotten.  It was more lack of interest … and the observation that Chatsworth discounted Rebecca's considerable skills, severely under-using her, which made Fogg quite happy.  Since Rebecca did not care to be ignored, Chatty would eventually drive her out of the Service.

Chatsworth made a noise somewhere between clearing his throat and a growl.  He went to his cold gray marble fireplace.  Unfortunately, now that Fogg had noticed the girdle's creaking, he couldn't stop hearing it.  When Chatsworth lifted his arm to lean on the mantle, it made a most alarming (but quiet) crack and drew Fogg's attention from the next words.  "I have no secrets from my staff, Fogg, and I don't fancy being behind a closed door with you.  Talk.  I haven't got all day."

"Are you sure, Chatty?"  With a shrug and a tug, Fogg rearranged the hang of his holster then casually pulled at the lapels of his jacket, dragging the fabric tight over the butt of the gun.  He turned to look for the chair and said as he sat down again behind the desk, "It's been quite some time since I've seen your father.  How #is_#_ he these days?  Recovered somewhat from his apoplexy, I trust?  I haven't seen Sir Reginald since ..."

Fogg was still looking away from Chatsworth, arranging his coattails and adjusting the line of his black trousers.  He heard the snap of Chatsworth's footsteps followed by the hall door slamming shut.  Fogg repressed a smile: third concession won.  Nearly there.  He looked up.  Chatsworth stood leaning on the door, his back to it, his hands behind him.  "I always knew you were a selfish bastard, Fogg, but I thought you at least had the principles of a gentleman."

Fogg graced him with a surprised look.  "Oh, I do have them, Chatty.  When I kill, it's always for a reason."

"That was an accident, Fogg!"  The color of Chatsworth's face now matched his bald spot and the mauve tint clashed horribly with the red neck cloth he'd chosen for the day.  Fogg sincerely hoped he hadn't inherited his father's susceptibility to apoplectic attacks.  It looked like one might be in the offing, and he had a use for the slime … and no desire to publish his presence in Chatsworth's office to the rest of the building just yet.

He permitted himself to contemplate Chatsworth's possible reaction when in a few weeks Edwards delivered his letter.  Now #that# should prove to be a first-rate opportunity for a seizure.  Perhaps he ought to ask Edwards to deliver it in the company of a physician?  No, he'd just tell him to leave before Chatty opened it – spare Edwards the trauma of a medical emergency.

He'd best give Chatsworth a moment or two to calm himself.  From the desk stand – a largish firedrake rendered in brass, a flame of amber spewing from its mouth -- Fogg pulled up a pen.  He tested the pen's point on his thumb.  Nearly dry.  Chatsworth must use a great deal of ink in his day-to-day work.  Only a tiny spot of blue was transferred to his thumb, unfortunately right into the prick he'd made a few days ago while dining with the Baron.  Fogg put the pen down and rubbed his fingers together.  The ink smeared slightly.  

He picked up the cigar again and drew.  It had begun to make Fogg a bit light-headed.  It had been years since he'd permitted himself the pleasure.

The small delay had not calmed Chatsworth.  Making snuffling, throaty noises loud enough that Fogg no longer heard his girdle creak, he paced from the desk to the fireplace and back.  He glanced at Fogg now and again to observe how his tormentor amused himself.

"Of course, it was an accident, Chatty.  An unfortunate accident.  Didn't I say so at the time?  And attributing it to his partner in crime -- I must say that was a stroke of genius on your part.  He didn't mind it at all, being dead himself.  And wasn't it lucky I'd killed him, hmmm, Chatsworth?  We brought in a pair of dead men and neither of them told any tales about cigars.  And you did promise me that favor so prettily.  'Anything you want, Fogg,' I believe you said.  'Just ask.'"  He paused.  "You know, I believe I never wrote up a proper report on that mission."

Fogg swiveled the office chair, the master of all Chatsworth's office, master of Chatsworth for that matter.  He wondered if he'd frightened Chatty enough to make him piss his trousers.  Surely the girdle would make that a chancy situation.  Reaching into his waistcoat, he pulled out another cigar and offered it to Chatsworth.  "Oh, I'm sorry, Chatty.  Forgive my manners, would you like a cigar?"

Chatsworth had a sick sneer painted on his face, an ugly un-amused rictus not echoed by his panic-filled eyes.  He looked away from Fogg.  Although he still stood, his legs seemed a bit wobbly.  Probably didn't want to sit in his own guest chair and concede Fogg's full ownership of his office and his soul … or more likely he didn't want to sit close to an assassin with a loaded gun.  Fogg laid the unclaimed cigar on Chatsworth's desk.

If, after whipping a vicious dog, one pets it, the dog will lick one's hand in gratitude.  Fogg stood up.  "Why don't you sit down, Chatty?" he said gesturing at the chair he'd just vacated.  "I don't want your job, you know.  I have a favor to ask – actually two favors.  Not difficult ones either.  I don't think you'll have any problem with either of them."  He managed to force a friendly tone into the words.

Chatsworth turned to look at him.  His eyes regarded Fogg only for a moment.  They quickly whipped away and looked at the empty chair then flicked back to Fogg.  Walking over to the chair hesitantly, almost as if he feared it might roll away from him, he pulled his coattails out of the way, sat down and folded his hands on his desk.  The hands worked together, stroking each other.  He ignored the cigar.

Fogg went over to the six clocks on the wall that surrounded the map of Europe.  He pointed to the clock labeled "Berlin," one of the five that had been ticking so busily since his arrival.  "Is Berlin three and half hours ahead of London?  I should have thought it rather less."

"It is less.  Johns didn't set that clock right."  Chatsworth did not look at Fogg.  His color had begun to fade toward a normal pink.

"How many agents do you have there now?  Does the Service still keep an entire cell on that station?"

"Fogg, you know that's classified information."  His eyes met Fogg's.  "Two cells.  We have two cells in the Germanies now.  Four British agents all told, another eight locals."

#Hmm,# Fogg thought, #that many?  Seems rather a lot.  Father had only one man.#  "Well, here is the first favor.  I'm bound for Berlin on an errand for an old friend.  I need a free rein and no interference from your agents."  He waited.  Since he'd demanded free rein, Chatsworth could fathom what the errand might be.  But the man was a rattled, quivering mess.  "I'm not going to take the bit in my mouth and run wild, Chatsworth.  I serve Her Majesty's interests.  I just want to avoid misunderstandings."  To serve Her Majesty's cousin, the Baron, could be said to serve her interests.  Fogg only half lied.

Chatsworth's disgruntled expression would have soured milk.  "Just what do you propose I do, telegraph them to ignore the Aurora?  To pretend she's invisible?  That would be rather a pretty trick."  It wouldn't be that Chatty disliked the notion of a royal intrigue, he would just resent exclusion from the inner circle.  No matter.  The Baron was to handle that, to make sure there were no Royal complications.

"I'm not taking the Aurora to Germany; I'm taking the train.  You'll think of something.  You're keen that way.  It's one thing I've always admired about you, Chatty."  Ah, that sweetened the bugger's temper, even if such lies did leave a foul taste in the mouth.  He needed another pull on that cigar.  Unfortunately, it had gone out in Chatsworth's ashtray, its usefulness as a prop at an end.

Fogg made his face contort into a friendly smile again, and Chatsworth seemed comforted by what he saw.  "What's the other favor, Fogg?  Something tells me it involves your cousin.  Do you want her released on holiday for a month or two?"

Chatsworth was guessing.  "No, Chatty.  I'd like you to keep her busy in England for a month.  I'd prefer you'd just assign her home office work for the while; but if necessary, you have my permission to use more rigorous measures.  A short incarceration perhaps -- use your imagination.  Just keep her off the Continent.  By the way, she's not to know I've gone to Berlin."

"Rigorous measures?  Not to know?"  Chatsworth's surprised expression was well worth the price of admission, such as it had been.  His voice squeaked a bit too, and the girdle chose that moment to creak.  Creaky girdle, squeaky voice.  Ruining Chatsworth's day had turned out to be a most amusing interlude for Fogg.  It almost balanced all the cuts and affronts Chatsworth had offered since he'd left the Service.  Almost.

"Within gentlemanly bounds, of course.  I don't have to tell you that Rebecca can defend herself if you should step outside them.  And I wouldn't take it amiss if you would put a minder on her as well -- although she might.  Doesn't like people watching over her.  Never has."

Fogg pulled out his pocket watch to check the time.  If he caught a cab, he could reach Edwards' office before lunch, leave the packet of letters with a few quick instructions and be almost back on schedule for his regular luncheon and card game at the Reform.  "I should warn you that I've left instructions and a testimonial with my solicitor if Rebecca is harmed in any way.  You do know Edwards, don't you?  Excellent solicitor.  Very thorough, very reliable.  An absolute bulldog of a man."

He stopped to look at Chatsworth, who had deflated into a crumpled and silent heap.  "Chatty?  Do you know Edwards?"  Chatsworth's chin rested on his chest and he regarded his feet.  All Fogg could see was his bald spot and its fringe of frizzy ginger hair.  "Chatty?"

Chatsworth's head came up.  His eyes looked distinctly moist and a sick sneer tugged at his upper lip again.  "I will do what you ask, Fogg.  Go commit your murder.  My agents won't get in your way.  But if you think I'll let you keep me leashed – that I won't seek a reckoning -- you don't know the Chatsworth blood and temper."  He stood up and leaned over his desk, surrounded by the unearthly light from the window behind him.  "By God, you'll pay.  You'll regret being alive."

That's when it happened, that damned interfering extra sense, perhaps accentuated by the narcotic effects of the cigar.  Fogg's world turned red and he tasted the heat of boiling blood.  A pressure wave of fear pulled the hair on his scalp straight up to the ceiling, and the air between him and Chatsworth trapped the last words and froze them, yowling and shivering for what seemed an eternity.

But it wasn't an eternity, it was barely two seconds.  Shaking his head, Fogg silently cursed the Devil for playing hob with his nerves – he'd had a similar incident last night and these attacks rarely came so close together.  Damn, and damn again.  As he stepped over to Chatsworth's coat rack to retrieve his hat, coat and stick, he stamped the floor emphatically to remind himself of what was real and what was not.

What?  Oh yes, Chatty had tried to call him out.  "I'd love to have a go at it with you, Chatty, but I'm bound for Berlin tomorrow.  Why don't you have your second call mine while I'm out of town and set something up for us in a few weeks?"  He put on his hat and struggled into his great coat.  It did not fit as well as the jacket over his holstered pistol and that was unfortunate, as Fogg had no time in his schedule for the tailor today.

His mind elsewhere, conventionalities for leave-taking came of themselves to Fogg's tongue.  "I'm afraid I really must run now.  It was so nice to see you again.  Say hello to your father for me, will you?"  He raised his stick in salute and not waiting for a reply from Chatsworth (the likelihood of one being diminishingly small) turned and walked out the door.

Outside as he pulled on his second glove, he thought of Rebecca's mission to Southwark.  Turning back, he re-opened Chatsworth's door without knocking.  He still sat in his chair with his head bent to rest on his arms.  At the sound of the opening door, he whipped upright and passed his hand across his eyes.  "Oh, Chatty," Fogg said, "is there anything we should know about this warehouse in Southwark tonight?  Any intelligence at all?"

Chatsworth's thick voice informed him, "Some reports from cabbies and streetwalkers of lights at all hours.  Could be anything – smugglers, white slavers, opium den.  Or it could really be a haunted house.  Better put some silver bullets in that pistol of yours, Fogg."

"Silver is for werewolves and vampires, Chatty.  Oughtn't bother a haunt!" Fogg responded over his shoulder as he left once more.

His mission accomplished and Chatsworth under his thumb, Fogg felt no need to hide his departure.  From Chatsworth's door, he turned right and headed for the main entrance, only to collide abruptly with Flitcraft who was in a rapid head-down transverse of the corridor.

Chatsworth's secretary had been carrying a tablet and the force of the collision threw it to the floor a good two feet away, face up.  Recovering his balance, Flitcraft gave it immediate chase and rapidly snatched the paper up, squawking, "Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Fogg!"  His voice had the discordant tonal qualities of a vulture.  If Death had a voice, He would sound much like Flitcraft.  That, coupled with his obsequious demeanor, had turned Fogg off from him since his first day of hire.  Flitcraft and Chatsworth, on the other hand, had found themselves simply made for one another.

Whipping the tablet behind his back as if Fogg were an enemy of the Crown, Flitcraft bowed with a quick nervous jerk.  Fogg afforded him a perfunctory nod of his head.  What did Flitcraft think he was doing?  Guarding a state secret from the Prussians?  Fogg's eyes were still very good and he'd seen at least one word clearly -- "Paris."

And Fogg cared not a wit.  Chatsworth spent almost as much time in Paris as he did in London, and Fogg did have to get Edwards' office by noon – it would be close enough as it was.  He hurried off.

Fogg walked out the Headquarters' double doors into the cool, heavy morning.  He nodded at the doorman George Redd, who nodded back, a surprised expression on his broad face.  It must have been years since someone had passed George on the way out without passing him on the way in.  He grinned broadly at Fogg and winked.  George would remember the old times, the old ways, and the hidden entrances -- even if he didn't know just where they were.  A clever man, he served Her Majesty's government well.  Fogg hoped Chatsworth treated him properly.

Whitehall was nearly empty of carriages, an unusual circumstance at this time of day; doubtless the rainy morning accounted for it, although the downpour had finally stopped and things should soon pick up.  An empty hack rattled down the street toward them.  Fogg descended the Service building's granite steps at an undignified run.  "Yo!  Yo there!  Pull up!"

Flitcraft rat-a-tat-tatted lightly at Chatsworth's door then turned to watch Mr. Fogg's retreating back.  A few minutes ago Sir Jonathan had rung the summoning bell so many times that it had sounded rather more like a buzzer.  Initially Flitcraft had suspected a crisis afoot and had immediately stashed the copy he'd been making in the hidden drawer, locked it and sprinted for Chatsworth's office, the Paris telegram clipped to his tablet.  After nearly colliding with Mr. Fogg, he revised his assessment of the possible situation in the chief's office, Fogg being sufficient explanation for the chief ringing any number of times.

He knocked again.  Still no response.  Something told him promptitude might be the most prudent choice.  Looking up and down the hall to check for observers, a habit so ingrained he couldn't shake it, Flitcraft pushed the door open.  "Sir Jonathan?"  The chief sat behind his desk, his back to the door and looking out the window at the brick wall across the courtyard.  Flitcraft quietly closed the door behind him.

"Sir Jonathan?  You summoned me, sir?"

Chatsworth made a throaty sound, coughed, sighed and swiveled around.  As often true, with the window shining behind him, it was hard for Flitcraft to read his facial expression or assess the shade of the bald spot.  "Take a telegram, Flits."

"Yes, sir.  If I may borrow a pen, sir?  I seem to have left mine behind."  Chatsworth leaned forward and pulled a pen out of his fanciful dragon stand, dipped it in ink and passed it over.  The task required him to bend out of the window's light.  He didn't look well, Flitcraft decided, no, not at all.  His eyes were puffy and the skin mottled.

"Transmit to all agents in the Germanies, at their, uh, last known location.  No, this isn't an emergency -- make it normal pick-up.  Flag, 'Do not acknowledge.'  Message text …"  

Chatsworth paused, apparently considering.  He sounded weak, his sentences fading away at the end as if he ran out of breath … or hope.  "Cain travels Berlin.  No, no.  They'd not know Fogg's code name, would they?"  Another pause.  For a long moment Flitcraft thought Chatsworth had forgotten he was there, then Chatsworth began again with a sigh.  "I guess we'll have to send it encoded.  Didn't want it give it that much weight, but there's nothing for it.  Make the message text:  'Phileas Fogg travels Berlin.  Do not interfere or render assistance.'  Use code base orange one five.  You've got a day or so to get it out."  Chatsworth leaned back in his chair, his folded hands tapping his lips.  His eyes had lost their focus.

"Is there anything else, sir?"  Flitcraft asked.  He fingered the Paris telegram.  This might not be the best time to present it, since it concerned Phileas Fogg and Sir Jonathan's conference with the man seemed to have left him perturbed.  One might even say, broken.

Flitcraft glanced at the wall of clocks.  Damn, Delhi had stopped again.  His new electromagnetic surveillance relay made that particular clock stop dead almost every day.  And the Berlin piece to run fast.  But the miracle of recorded sound – it was worth the risk.  Tonight's transcription ought to prove very informative – Chatsworth had said Fogg was bound for Berlin and that couldn't be good.

Chatsworth had been talking.  " … need someone with no connection to the Foggs, or better yet an enemy of theirs.  That blasted basket of vipers must have more than a few of them.  Any suggestions, Flits?"

This would be the time to present the telegram.  Flitcraft pulled it out, and placed it squarely on the chief's desk.  "This just came from the special observation post you ordered in Paris, sir.  You might find it helpful."

Chatsworth read the telegram aloud, "Lazarus threatens Fogg.  Verne bound London.  Request two men to assist me Paris immediately.  Hilda Burgetta von Rolt."  He looked up at Flitcraft and some of his old autocratic self had returned.  "What's this?  Lazarus again?  Wasn't von Rolt's mission to verify Verne as Fogg's catamite?  You'd think even a Prussian female would have no trouble spotting that kind of perversion."

Flitcraft cleared his throat.  He spoke tentatively.  "I believe that Miss von Rolt's mission may not have been conveyed to her quite that way, sir."  He raised his eyebrows, hoping that Sir Jonathan might grasp his unspoken meaning.  He didn't.  Chatsworth didn't reply aloud but his glare demanded further elucidation.

Flitcraft squirmed.  "Miss von Rolt is rather young, sir.  In fact, if I may say so, scarcely more than a child herself.  I rather think the man who briefed her, well, he couldn't quite bring himself to be so forthright in his, uh, shall we say description of the situation …"

"Was that man you, Flits?"

The storm warnings had gone up in Chatsworth's eyes, and Flitcraft was torn between relief that his chief had apparently recovered his equilibrium and the certain knowledge that he was about to suffer for it.  "Yes, sir."

The storm continued to build.  "Refresh my memory.  Just how did this Miss von Rolt come to be on our rolls?"

"Her mother, sir.  It was a favor to her mother, the Countess von Rolt, a connection of Baron von Bresslau's, I believe."  Flitcraft ducked his head.  If the storm were to break, he'd just as soon not get it in the face.  Nothing happened.  Without raising his head, he tried to roll his eyes up enough to see Sir Jonathan's face.  The view revealed that the man looked thoughtful and had gone back to tapping his lips with folded hands.

The chief straightened up.  One could practically see the iron returning to his backbone.  "Retrieve her.  Deny her request for the two men and order an immediate recall to London.  And set up an off-site rendezvous point where we can meet – her hotel ought to be adequate."

"Yes, sir!"  Flitcraft hustled for the door, but stopped when he remembered the pen in his hands.  He stepped back to the desk and placed it in the dragon's back.

"And, Flits?"

As he bent over the desk, Chatsworth's face had come within only a foot or two of his own.  Flitcraft looked up into Chatsworth brown eyes, and tried to keep his lips from trembling.  For a moment, it had looked as though he might have escaped unscathed.  "Sir?"  His voice squeaked a little.

"No one -- and I mean absolutely no one -- is to know of anything we've discussed.  Am I clear?"

Flitcraft permitted himself a small sigh of relief.  "Absolutely, sir.  No one.  It will not go beyond me, sir."

In the hall, he hummed a happy little tune.  It was a good life he led.  And today should prove very profitable.  The Prussians paid well for this kind of information.  He closed the door to his office and began to prepare Sir Jonathan's telegrams.  He would have a busy afternoon.


	6. Chapter 6

London, 1862

Sluicing past Fogg's hired carriage as it progressed up Regent Street, a stream of Londoners hurried to end the chill, cheerless day in the comfort of their homes.  The morning's rain had early washed the life from the day and the long, sunless afternoon had doused whatever joy remained.  Fogg had yet to see a smiling pedestrian.  A woman pulled a small boy down the footway, ignoring his screams.  A little further on a pudgy man elbowed past two others in his haste to make some few seconds speedier progress home.

A dark and heartless evening, impatient to be about, had already sent out heralds with ladders and punks in hand.  The carriage had passed one lamplighter shortly before crossing Berwick, and another had just set flame to gas jet as the carriage turned off Regent onto Vigo.  Fogg would be at Savile Row in under two minutes.

Fogg's fingers twitched where they rested on the carriage's frame.  He'd nearly forgotten this – the keenness racing through him scalp to toes.  It had plagued him almost since he'd left Chatsworth's office, tying his stomach in knots and occasionally vibrating his hands when he least expected it.  It had made it devilish hard to play cards.  Much to his partner's disgust, they'd lost every game, and it tasked him to sit still now.  He felt like jumping out of the carriage and jogging alongside.

Absently his hands explored the hard metal shape under his coat.  He'd worn the pistol all day to familiarize himself with the weight, but upon his arrival at Baumer's to pick up his bullets, Baumer the younger, a thickset man whose short fingers were permanently engrained with black powder, had insisted that Fogg try an invention he called a "cartridge harness" -- a strap supporting loops for carrying extra bullets.  A clever conceit.  Filled with thirty or so bullets it hung off his right shoulder and counterweighted the new pistol.

Rebecca would be green with envy.  But not for long.  He'd already ordered one for her, appropriately stained and tooled to match her leather cuirass.  Although it would arrive after he'd left for Berlin, Baumer's made all of Rebecca's body armour and could be trusted to get it right.

The carriage stopped.  He was home.

"Do you have something to keep you warm, Leo?" Fogg asked as his cabman pulled open the hansom's half door.  Fogg stepped down to the kerb then reached back for his hat.  A disadvantage of above average height – Fogg had to remove his hat to fit in almost any carriage.  And often as not, he forgot to retrieve it again.  He'd lost many a fine hat that way.  If Passepartout noticed him hatless, he'd uncover to match his master and Verne, if he was about, would discreetly shed his as well.  Raz would've rolled his eyes at their cavalcade of unfashionably bare heads.  They often reduced Rebecca to giggles.

Leo answered Fogg with a grin full of five yellow teeth and a great deal of pink gum.  "Yessir, Mr. Fogg."  Picking up the other item from the carriage seat, a long package wrapped in newspaper that smelled sweetly of roses, he handed it to Fogg then lifted the bench to pull out two blankets. "We're finely set up, sir.  Me'n Matilda have 'ur blankets and summat to eat.  We may go down to the water trough to get drinkies for me gurl."  He stopped and regarded the sky.  "But any road up, there be no rain near, though 'spect there be fog later.  You and Miss Fogg best dress warm."  Pulling one blanket over his shoulders, he inspected Matilda's harness then released her check reins so she could drop her head.  Horse and man communed quietly about business matters while Leo spread the second blanket over Matilda.

Fogg smiled at Leo's back.  Leo's rig had carried Fogg around London for the last two hours -- since he'd left the Reform Club, in fact.  Fogg had counted himself lucky to snag a cabbie he knew and had hired Leo for the rest of the day as well as Rebecca's foray this evening.

"If my cousin isn't ready, it's quite possible we shall.  But if you walk Matilda about, stay near."

Fogg turned to regard his home.  Most of No. 7's windows glowed.  Rebecca must have been up and about for a while.  When at home she turned on gaslights upon entering a room then left them burning behind her.  As she never saw the gas bill, he seldom faulted her the extravagance.  And tonight it would take more than a few pence of wasted gas to irritate Fogg.  On her birthday tomorrow he'd leave her without a proper farewell or explanation.  He'd much to repent and very little time for it.

Rebecca may have turned every gas key in the house, but she had, somehow, overlooked the stoop.  Darkness still pooled the front of No. 7 and Fogg couldn't see the lock, but he'd be damned if he'd knock on his own door.  Shifting the roses and his stick to his left hand, Fogg pulled off the glove with his teeth and took the key out of his pocket.  He brushed a fingertip near the jointure of the polished oak double doors, searching for the keyhole.

With both hands thus occupied, he would have made an easy target.  Even an amateur executioner could end it for him here on his own stoop.  What a happy thought.  He'd have no burden of farewell lies to tell Rebecca in the morning, no miserable sleepless train journey across the Continent, and no body bleeding out at his feet in Berlin at the end of the week.  Very happy thought, indeed.

He paused to look over his shoulder, but although the dark around him felt thick as death and bristling with eyes, all he saw were Leo's carriage, a covered coach standing idle before No. 15 down the street and a woman entering No. 10.  Thrusting aside fancy, Fogg turned back to the door.  In another second his finger found the round dimple and slot of the keyhole, and with a tinging of brass to brass, he opened the door into a brightly lit entry.  Shutting it behind him, he paused to turn the ignition for both of the stoop lights.

"Rebecca?" he called as he shut the door.  Silence.  "Rebecca?"  Placing the roses on the lowest stair, he doffed his coat and hat and hung them on the hall tree.

There had been no Passepartout to feed the fires today.  The front hall was as chill as the street, and instead of the comforting rattle of kitchen noises, the townhouse lay still.  Only the hissing gaslights broke the hush.  Where the Devil was Rebecca?  She had to be here somewhere.

Fogg paused at the foot of the staircase, torn between yelling again and a more dignified ascension to the bedrooms; but to his surprise, Rebecca's voice did not float down from above.

"I'm in the kitchen, Phil!"

A smile briefly flitted across Fogg's face.  He shouted back.  "I'll join you in a minute, Cousin.  I have something to take upstairs."  Retrieving the roses, Fogg ran up the staircase.

It seemed likely Buckingham Palace's huge ice cellar -- reputedly stacked with a veritable alp of ice blocks and cold enough to freeze whole beeves rock hard -- was a warmer clime than the interior of Leo's cab.

Just as Leo had predicted, a November fog skulked along Savile Row looking for travelers to confound.  When Fogg and Rebecca climbed into the carriage, the fog had already be-dewed Matilda a glistening gray.  Up on his perch behind them, Leo would be fair chilled even under the protection of his blanket.  Fogg made a mental note to double whatever fare Leo asked.

But the cold in the carriage had less to do with the weather than with Rebecca.  It emanated from the corner where she'd retreated.  Not a far corner.  She sat less than an arm's reach from Fogg, nearer a hand's breadth, so close he feared chilblains.

He tugged the lap blanket a bit higher over them both, Rebecca glaring as he reached across.  She broke the frigid quiet, her voice still shaking but once again under control.  "I can't believe you'd cancel Passepartout's contract, Phileas.  Tell me you didn't.  Please."

Fogg looked out the cab's window, trying to think of something new to say, his fingers playing with the brim of the hat in hands.  He hadn't intended to tell her until tomorrow.  She'd forced it out of him, with her chatter about the chill house and the tribulations of assembling a meal from food canisters labeled in fifteen languages, not to mention the monstrous pile of laundry in her bedroom, so coated with Scottish mud that only an expert's touch would do, and she didn't even remember the #name# of her laundress, much less the address.  And how it would be all set aright when Passepartout returned.

Laughing at her own domestic imbecility, Rebecca had asked if Passepartout would be back soon and let an easy smile bend her mouth – the same effortless smile Fogg had known for the past thirty years or more.

He'd stood admiring the twinkling eyes and red lips, wondering where he'd find the strength to leave her tomorrow, and she'd asked again, "Phil, when is Passepartout coming back?"

Then he'd told her and the smile had disappeared.

Mist obscured the few remaining pedestrians out and about, creating a parade of spirits that seemed to drift rather than walk through the night.  Within the carriage the thick air dimmed the light of the side lamp and turned Rebecca's uncovered head, like Matilda, faux gray.  Fogg sighed.  Rebecca with gray hair -- what a horrid thought.  If Rebecca had gray hair, then he would be … old.

Old and lonely with the horror of what he would do in Berlin.  Every one of his gray hairs had been purchased with blood.  Surely he would be white-haired when he returned to England.  If he returned -- he'd yet to decide.

He might be leaving Rebecca tomorrow; but if he didn't reply soon, she'd leave him tonight, this moment, now.  The tense lines of her body made that clear.  Her hand was at the ready on the carriage frame, as though she intended to vault the low half-door and dash away into the depths of the fog.  #Not tonight, Rebecca.  Please, not tonight.#  "It's a business matter, Rebecca.  Please, let's not argue anymore."

Rebecca didn't answer.  She'd pushed off the lap blanket to the cab's floor and crossed her legs.  With a booted foot she tapped out a beat on the dashboard.  He could see her fair, heart-shaped face clearly through the mist, but her dark wool jacket and trousers blended into the upholstery.  She'd left her leather and whalebone cuirass at home in favor of warmer wool attire.  Even Rebecca knew better than to defy a London fog.  "You're being a dunce, Phileas.  You'll lose Passepartout to von Bresslau."

Of course he would.  Tomorrow he'd lose Passepartout like he'd lose everything else -- his peace of mind, his self-respect, his soul.  In the end, Father would take it all.

Fogg looked ahead over Matilda's back and tried not to think about the morning.  In the mist the glowing lamps of the streetlights seemed suspended in mid-air.  He turned slightly and pushed up the trap door in the cab's roof.  "Leo, let me know when we're close, will you?"

"Certainly, Mr. Fogg.  It be a while.  This fog makes fer vury slow going.  We be just past Southwark bridge."

As Fogg's arm came down, Rebecca's hard grip locked on his wrist, pinching his bracelet into his skin.  She said, "Look at me, Phil, and tell me the truth about Passepartout.  I know you're hiding something.  Tell now, or it will be the worse for you."  She lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes.

Fogg looked down into the bluest eyes in London, their shade shrouded by the fog and the night, but blue in the years and years of Fogg's memory.  As deeply blue as Raz's had been brown.  And always bluer by far than Father's faded ice.

Hiding something?  Probably not.  Likely she already knew what he'd been in the Service, the vile code name, and all the sordidness.  At the last, Father had been desperate to hold her.  He wouldn't have neglected such a juicy bit of familial poison.  But she'd never spoken of it in all the years since.

Belief in family was God's special gift to women.  Or was it a curse to believe that worth lingered, despite every evidence against it?  She'd believed in Father so long.  Now she believed in him.  Neither of them had had any worth to earn it, and still she believed.  Yes, surely a curse.

Fogg checked an impulse to burden Rebecca with the mission to Berlin, his reason for taking it -- the need to uphold Fogg honour, even if only he knew it'd been besmirched.  She'd worry, or more likely insist on accompanying him.  He wouldn't allow that.  She had too much to live for.

Rebecca only worried about Passepartout.  Some of that he could alleviate, at least in part with the truth.  Passepartout's future was much brighter than Fogg's.

He took a deep breath and shaped his answer.  "Harbin has begun a new project.  He won't tell me the details, but he proposes relocating Passepartout to his train yard in Bremen, so it may be a new type of locomotive, possibly a new engine design.  He offered me a great deal of money to buy out Passepartout's contract.  I turned him down."  Regrettably, all true.

"Then why …?"

"Why am I canceling the contract instead?  Rebecca, you know of Passepartout's, uh, bent and his former relationship with the Baron."  Fogg turned to face Rebecca squarely, to look into her eyes.  "I #won# Passepartout, Rebecca.  He was handed over to me as chattel and had no choice in the matter.  I shan't hold him back if he wants to return to his, uh, former situation.  The Baron was to tender an offer today; I'm letting him make his choice free and clear."  Fogg had made a choice for the future.  Passepartout deserved the same opportunity.

Rebecca's hand slipped into his and squeezed through his glove.  "But does he know you want him back?"

He rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb.  "I hope so.  God, I hope so."  That was the lie.  He looked to see if Rebecca had detected it, but her head hung down, looking at their clasped hands.  He couldn't read her eyes.

Souls lived in the eyes.  This morning Fogg had read the longing in Passepartout's, and yesterday when he'd met with the Baron, von Bresslau had been no less anxious.

Before Passepartout had come to Fogg, he'd spent five years with the Baron creating wondrous, magical machines.  Surely a more desirable career than valet, pilot and occasional bodyguard for Mr. Phileas Plato Fogg, Gentleman and lodestone for ill-fortune and danger.

And that without considering the comfort the Baron and Passepartout found in each other.

What was that?  Fogg straightened smartly and his eyes strained to see beyond their moving islet of illuminated mist.  Something distorted had moved out there.  While in itself no cause for alarum -- war and disease filled London with horrors that once had been human, and the fog turned everything ghastly as well -- the way it had moved … surely nothing living could move quite so fast or stop so abruptly.

The trapdoor above their heads opened and Leo's cheerful voice announced, "We be vury close now, Mr. Fogg."

Focused on the night, Fogg didn't look up.  Rebecca's head tilted back and she answered for him.  "Thank you, Leo.  You may pull over."

For an hour of their waiting, light had blazed from almost every window on the first two floors of No. 7 Savile Row, then a half hour ago one of those unhealthy London fogs had drifted in dimming the radiance.  But from their coach waiting in front of No. 15, rectangles of light could yet be discerned.  The Foggs were still to home.

Finally, the rectangles extinguished one by one, and as the front door opened, only the stoop lights remained.  Two shadows exited and, floating through the mist, crossed the footway to the waiting hansom.  Schnabel grunted German gutturals into Richter's ear.  "There he is again, Kapitan!  There's Nebelmann!" 

"It's Fogg, not Nebelmann.  Don't forget your English, Sergeant," Richter whispered back.  He'd been expecting a man and a woman.  This looked more like two men, as both shapes were definitely clad in trousers.

Richter shifted to the coach's other bench to view the two loading paraphernalia into the hansom's boot.  Swinging his head out a bit too far, he sharply tapped the gash above his eye on the window frame.  Damn, if that started bleeding again!  He reached up and patted the white adhesive holding the wound closed.  No, still tight.  Stung like the very Devil, though.  Rebecca Fogg would pay for that.  Mein Gott, she would pay!

This morning when Richter had arrived back from Scotland, Sergeant Schnabel had been injudicious enough to remark on the strip of white.  He'd acquired a fine array of bruises for his stupidity.  This evening Flitcraft had been yet more dim-witted.  Even as the drek palmed the money for his transcript, he couldn't keep his eyes off Richter's forehead.

Richter had required Flitcraft to linger -- fidgeting like a mayfly and popping up and down from the hotel room chair every half minute or so -- while he read through the confrontation between Fogg and Chatsworth.  Disappointingly incomplete, the transcript had been scarcely worth the exorbitant price Flitcraft had charged for what he'd called critical information.

"Is this all you have?" Richter had demanded.  "Who is Fogg to eradicate and who's this 'old friend'?"  Someone had persuaded Fogg to take on a new assignment after he'd been adamantly inactive for years.  But who?  And more importantly, how?  Or rather, why?

Tonight in No. 7 Savile Row he and Schnabel would seek Fogg's "why."  Fogg would soon die, of course, but since corpses rarely spoke, if one had questions, answers were best sought while the target still lived.

Flitcraft's sharp, unpleasant voice had babbled, "You have everything I know there in your hands, Herr Richter.  That, and the Chief's sent Miss Fogg to Southwark tonight.  Fogg might very well go with her.  He does often as not.  With the Foggs, the Service gets two agents for the expense of one, but …"

The barrel of Richter's pistol pressed into the prominent Adam's apple bobbing under Flitcraft's chin, and the gibbering ended with a strangled gasp.  "If you do not know who sends Fogg to Berlin, Mister Flitcraft, I'm not interested in your ramblings.  Now, I will ask a simple question and you will give me a simple answer:  Do you know who sends Fogg?"

The man must have had a faucet in his eyes, tears filled them so quickly.  One over-flowed down Flitcraft's cheek.  "No, sir, I don't know, Herr Richter."

"How very disappointing."  Flitcraft sniffled loudly and made a half-hearted gesture toward rubbing his running nose.  Seen across the room, he was an unattractive stick of a man.  With his tear-streaked face at a distance of three or four inches, Richter found even less to admire.  Richter removed the pistol before Flitcraft could drip on it.  "Now, you will tell me about the Foggs and this mission in Southwark."

The Foggs's carriage passed the coach, the iron tires rattling loudly on the cobblestones, and quickly faded into the fog.  Richter tapped Schnabel on the shoulder and motioned that it was time.  He stepped down out of the coach and paid off the coachman.  Sergeant Schnabel tucked the pry bar under his coat.  Together they slipped into the fog.

The last time Phileas had taken Rebecca to the London Zoo, oh it must have five years ago, if not more, they'd strolled through the cat house to look at the new panther on display.  From Burma, the plaque had read, a suspected man-eater.  Only saved because of the rare black fur.

The cat had been as black as the original sin, and in the shaded building, only its fluid pacing made it visible.  That and its eyes.  God, those eyes had followed them as they walked past and a pink tongue had licked a black mouth as if the cat recalled with relish the taste of human bones.  "Handsome brute, isn't he?" Phileas had said.

In action, Phileas became that panther – carnivorous, graceful, a poem of muscle.  A magnificent beast, withal, and beautiful to see, even at the kill.  Tonight he moved through the Southwark warehouse, checking rooms with a pistol held out ready to fire, a rapacious panther hunting for hot blood and sweet meat.

Rebecca could almost forgive him for this preposterous business with Passepartout when he looked like that.  Almost, not quite.  After all, she'd probably spend all of tomorrow convincing the valet that his master truly wanted him back.

Even great beauty only got one so far, and tonight it would get Phileas nowhere at all.  He'd started their evening badly, deliberately infuriating her with, "I've canceled Passepartout's contract."  And all through their ride, although he sat only a few inches away, his mind seemed to be on another continent, his answers coming only after long pauses, if at all.  Then when Leo pulled up just short of the intersection of Clink and Stoke, Phileas had jumped out of the carriage before it even stopped and dashed off without explanation and only the admonition to "wait here!"

Slamming the carriage door behind her, Rebecca frowned after him.  He'd seen something, no doubt, and had gone to investigate without backup.  Keeping all the fun to himself!  Well, if that's what he wanted, tonight he could have it all.  She looked up at the cabbie sitting above her on his perch.  "Would you mind helping me unload, Leo?"

She'd had the police whistle between her lips tweeting the "fetch-us-out" signal for Leo, when Phil re-materialized out of the fog, breathing hard.  He didn't tell Rebecca and Leo what he'd sought and she was in no mood to ask.  Dropping the whistle to dangle on the cord around her neck, she thrust a loaded revolver into Phil's hands.  "Here, make yourself useful."  She took the unlit lantern, the other revolver and a bag of supplies and set out without a backward glance.  She'd finished briefing Leo; and as for Phileas, if he wanted to come, he would, and if he didn't, well, all the better.

Their warehouse turned out to be a red-brick affair, supposedly three-storeys tall but she couldn't confirm that in the poor light.  It was situated across from the last weather-worn debris of Clink Prison's former site, where piles of fire-blasted brick had seemed to throng with the misty ghosts of former inmates as they walked past.

Finally arriving at the warehouse's corner, Phileas had motioned his pistol for her to take the parameter counter-clockwise while he moved in the opposing direction.  Without even thinking she'd obeyed.  Infuriating.  She'd been trained like a dog or a horse to submit by reflex.

In ten minutes they'd met at the far corner.  She hadn't seen a thing, not even recent footprints in the mud, and shook her head emphatically in answer to Phileas's inquiring look.  Apparently he hadn't seen anything either, for he'd lit their lamp and with another broad wave of the pistol, invited her to work her magic on a door ten feet back along the wall.

Something within this warehouse had turned Phil uneasy, as he didn't panther prowl without reason, no matter how beautiful it made him look.  Constantly scanning the balconies above, he checked each room before allowing her to enter with the revealing lamp.  She ought to be insulted.  She was insulted.

But she'd be bloody damned before she'd ask.  #She# saw nothing amiss.  Despite Sir Jonathan's worries, this warehouse was as empty as a moor at midnight.  Two or three wharf rats had scurried away from them into the dark, but otherwise the building stood empty.  Apparently it had stored baled cotton for a mill up north until America's war had cut off supply, as the rooms smelled dryly of cotton.  With every gliding step Phileas kicked up lint floats from the thickly covered floor, flecking his black wool trousers with white as far as the knees.

But no ghosts.  Or smugglers, not even a slaver.  And definitely nothing as smelly as an opium den.  Just lint, dust and stale air.

Pirouetting, trying to cover every corner of the room at once, Phileas danced them through two empty echoing chambers but as they stole along the wall to the door of a third, his demeanor changed.  He staggered, and the gun dropped to his side.  Stopping, he leaned against the bare boards of the wall, his head down and his shoulders bowing in.  The pistol in his hands shook, or was that the lamplight flickering?  Rebecca moved closer.  "What is it, Phil?"  Passepartout had said her cousin hadn't eaten properly for days; perhaps the deprivation had caught up with him.

When he didn't speak, she raised their lantern to his face.  He looked ill.  Sweat beaded his forehead and his unfocused eyes stared at her vaguely.  He panted as though he'd been running hard.  "Are you feeling well, Phileas?  You look positively nauseous."

"I don't know.  I feel a bit light-headed.  And that … that stench."  He shook his head as if to clear it.  "Balaclava," he mumbled.  "Yes, Balaclava, that's what it smells like.  Blood, and bloated carcasses and more death than the eyes can take in.  It's, it's -- no, 'putrid' doesn't even begin to ..."  He stopped and tried to straighten up a bit.  "You can't smell that?  Rotting flesh?  Gassy gangrene?"

Decaying meat?  Rebecca adjusted her opinion of the barren warehouse.  Dead flesh in such a place suggested all sorts of vileness.  But her nose hadn't caught it yet.  She lifted said feature and tested the air.  "No, I'm not catching it.  Just cotton smells."  She whispered for no particular reason other than the hugeness of the space.

Putting the lantern down on the floor, she looked back the way they'd come, considering.  "Perhaps it's a dead rat; or you know, Saint Thomas's is only a street or so over.  Perhaps you've caught a whiff of the surgery.  Florence Nightingale once told me the pong off their refuse heap gagged even the nurses.  But I'll scout about, see if I can get a fix on it.  You stay here.  Catch your breath."

Phileas really did look peaked.  Her hand rubbed his arm above the elbow, and he agreed to her suggestion with a nod and a sigh, then put his pistol in a coat pocket and mopped at his bare forehead with a kerchief.

Rebecca smiled.  Yet again Phileas had left his hat in a carriage.  Generally, he did a fine job emulating Raz's fashion sense, but Phil still had his weak points, retention of hats being the foremost.

Rebecca turned and took a dozen or more steps toward the center of the large, empty room, and stood, with her back to Phileas, trying to decide on a quartering pattern.  Now if the hospital was southeast and the wind, what little there was tonight, blew from the east ...

Fogg's head buzzed like the apiary at Shillingworth when the keeper smoked his bees into stupor before stealing their honey.  He felt as though he'd been gassed.  The heavy repulsive atmosphere sucked the breath from his lungs and the sense from his brain.  But at least Rebecca had let go of her snit.  That was something.  For that he'd endure more than a bad smell any day.

Fogg watched Rebecca's trouser-clad bum as she strode purposefully away; then the far wall caught his eye.  It glowed with a reflected light much too bright for their lantern.  Water stains below a high window sharpened from a vague bifurcated shadow into a tangled, multi-shaded alluvial map.  That pane had apparently been missing for years.

Keeping one hand on the wall to support him, Fogg straightened to survey the room.  The light intensified and judging by the patterns of radiance on the walls, the source lay near him, but he saw nothing.

The floor resolved into planks covered by a drift of the snow-like cotton fluff.  Out-shone, the sphere of illumination about the lantern disappeared.  Breathless waiting filled seconds that stretched until time groaned under the strain.  Something was coming.  Something from Hell.

Fogg's chest heaved; he wiped his lips with the back of his gloved hand.  Was this real or one of his visions?  Rebecca stood in the middle of the room facing the far wall, unmoving and apparently oblivious to threat.  He must warn her.  Tell her to run for her life.

"Rebecca!" he called and staggered away from the wall.  Despite his anxiety, his movement was dawdling and halt.  She turned, oh so slowly, so painfully slow, and moved toward him as though miming a run, each step taking two, three, four times longer than normal.  Slowly she raised her hand, regarded it with horror then let it drift down again.  The scene had the feel of a nightmare, but Fogg didn't wake up.

"P—h—i—l."  Rebecca's ghostly moan took long seconds to finish as she continued to advance in agonized delay, her mouth open and her lips pulled back in an anxious grimace.

A cloud of smouldering plasma coalesced between them.  Rapidly it thickened and elongated.  It squirted into arms and legs, then split more finely into hands, fingers, feet and toes.  A round knob of a head popped out like a grape squeezed from its skin.  Within its translucent, sparking sack, protoplasm writhed.

The thing stank like a battlefield of corpses, a month dead and unburied.  It had no face.  It made no sound.

And still Fogg and Rebecca moved as if bound with the weight of centuries.

The unsettling figure seemed to discover itself.  It twirled in place, jumped up and down and flexed its arms, moving much more freely than either of the corporeal inhabitants of the room.  Then with a cock of its head, it noticed Fogg.  It took a gliding step toward him, then another.

Fogg recognized the spectre.  He'd seen it less than a year ago in Paris.  #Lazarus,# he thought.  #Come for his revenge.#  Lethargic, swaying with weakness, Fogg stopped and waited for the onrushing apparition.  There was no point in fleeing.  He could barely walk.  But if he engaged it, he might give a Rebecca chance to escape.  And somehow it all seemed so fitting.  He wouldn't go to Berlin seeking revenge after all; instead he'd join Lazarus in Hell.

Rebecca continued her relentless advance behind the now nearly opaque form, her sluggish movement barely visible to Fogg.

Lazarus was three feet from him, then two, then one.  Fogg stood, waiting and growing impatient for his end.  The blasted ghost certainly took its time.  And of all the un-sportsman like braggadocio!  After the rout Madame Soretsky had served him, one would think, Lazarus -- who in his time had been an English Gentleman – ought to know he'd been bested and move on to haunting a castle or some other sedately eternal recreation.  Of one thing Fogg was sure, #his# vendettas would end at the grave.

Fogg watched the translucent hand touch his glove.  There was no sensation through the leather.  Fingers like glow-worms slithered past his jacketed wrist and explored his waistcoat, tapping the black buttons and tweaking the lapels.  The digits disappeared under his chin, undoubtedly fingering his neck cloth.  Lazarus had always fancied he'd a better fashion sense than Fogg.  Must be devilish hard to keep up with trends when one was dead.  Shrouds generally lacked style, and corpses saw little else.

His smell had grown nearly solid in Fogg's nose and he involuntarily gagged.

The ghastly hand touched his face … or tried to.  Fogg felt no touch, no pressure, had no unholy sensation of the grave as the hand passed up through his jaw, his lips, nose and eyes and out through his hair.  Nothing.

Rebecca had nearly reached him.  She had one of her throwing knives in hand.  Stopping just short of Lazarus's cloudy presence, she slowly and awkwardly tried to slash the ghost into pieces, to dispel him or somehow affect his existence with the sluggishly wild passes of her knife.  The blade passed through Lazarus's protoplasm without rip or ripple.

The spectre tipped its head to look down at the knife passing through.  It spun about, thrust its head toward Rebecca and formed a slit of a mouth to roar, but all Fogg heard was a distant huffing much like a locomotive when one rides the caboose.  Rebecca roared back at the top of her lungs and, picking up her whistle, blew that too.  Even muted by the dilated time, she made a glorious racket.

Spinning back, Lazarus tried his roar on Fogg.  Fogg smiled.  Lazarus had failed to even touch Fogg's flesh.  Polite skepticism would seem the appropriate rejoinder to an obviously hollow threat.

Perhaps it was the influence of Fogg's restraint, but Lazarus finally demonstrated a bit of English reserve.  He withdrew.  The unreal body left the floor and dispersed into a shapeless cloud that circled the room faster and faster looking for something, a door perhaps.

As the cloud moved faster, Rebecca, who had resumed her efforts to reach Fogg's side, began to move yet slower, until she seemed suspended in mid-air, out-stretched, one hand raised to touch Fogg, hanging there frozen.

Lazarus found the exit he sought in the high window with the missing pane and without so much as a "fare-thee-well" threaded itself through the opening and out into the misty night.

The room's brilliance shrank to a dim circle about the lantern.  Time corrected suddenly –- returning to shape much as a piece of stretched rubber snaps after release -- and Fogg found himself abruptly captured by a breathlessly excited Rebecca.  Her encircling arms squeezed so hard he was certain a rib would crack.

"Don't you have any nerves at all, Phil?" she exclaimed, her face on his chest.  "How could you just stand there waiting for it?  I thought you were going to … Phil?  Phil?"

For Fogg the remaining light in the room fled as he began to collapse onto Rebecca.  She struggled to hold him up, but at thirteen stone and six foot, he over-balanced her, and with a cry of warning she had to let him gracelessly measure his limp length on the floor, the impact kicking up an eddy of cotton that puffed away then settled back on his jacket and trousers.

#What a mess,# Fogg thought as the room faded completely to black.  #I'll never get this wool clean now.#  Maybe he shouldn't let Passepartout go after all.

Sergeant Schnabel had never seen anything like it – an entire small room filled with exquisite jackets, trousers, waistcoats, hats, boots, stacks of shirts, and racks of neck cloths.  He put down the candle on a chest and pulled one of the beautiful sticks from the cured elephant's foot in the corner.  A dragon's head had been carved in the ivory handle, complete with two gleaming red crystal eyes.  The open mouth hissed at him and the eyes glittered and seemed to follow him when he twisted the cane about.  He hastily thrust it back in the foot.

Kapitan Richter was searching the main floor, in particular the large desk in the study and the library of books.  The Sergeant had been assigned the bedrooms.  He'd already been through the servant's room on the third floor, a fine, comfortable space but completely empty of clews to Fogg's mission.

The other bedroom on this floor, a lady's boudoir by all the signs, had yielded little more.  A bouquet of a dozen or so perfectly formed pink roses lay carefully arranged on the sheets of an unmade bed.  Across their long, de-thorned stems lay a small jewelry box.  It had held a ruby bracelet with stones that glittered much like the dragon's eyes.  Very expensive.  A note inside said, "To my beloved cousin Rebecca on her 33rd birthday, Phileas."  He'd slipped the bracelet out its case and into his pocket.  Fogg would die tonight or tomorrow, probably his cousin too.  No one would ever miss this little trinket.

The Sergeant never honored any of his cousins' birthdays, let alone gave them fine presents.  He wondered why Fogg and his cousin bothered with two bedrooms.  Surely not to deceive the valet.  Since servants changed bedding and soaked out any stains, they always knew the family's sleeping habits.  Schnabel's mother had been a maid in Kapitan Richter's household.  Following her on the rounds of the bedchambers as a child, he'd seen it all – except a wardrobe as fine as Fogg's.  All this elegance in one place was almost enough to make a man change sides.

Taking one last longing look at the beautiful clothes, Schnabel picked up his candle, stepped out of the walk-in closet and closed the door.  He looked about.  The bed in this room was made up -- further proof of the Fogg cousins' convivial sleeping arrangements – but nothing lay about on any of the stands.  There was, however, a small writing desk.

Putting his candle down, he began to riffle through the few papers that lay in its single drawer -- bills (Schnabel lifted an eyebrow at the gas bill) and the valet's contract, but nothing else save blank paper, quills and ink.  He looked over the end of desk to check the dustbin and found it overflowing with tightly wadded balls of white.

At last something promising.  This ought to sweeten the Kapitan's foul mood.  Schnabel rotated his shoulder experimentally at that memory.  The Kapitan had a vicious way when angry, and this morning Schnabel had not been able to get out of the way.

The Sergeant plucked one ball out of the dustbin and flattened it on the desk.  Addressed to Her Majesty Queen Victoria, it began, "Ma'am, it is with a deep sense of shame that I put pen to paper.  I have always had the honour to be your obedient servant, but in the situation that I now find myself, I am …"

The next word had been crossed out.  It looked like "obliged," but the Sergeant's command of written English was a bit weak – much worse than his spoken.  At any rate, it was the last written word on the page.  Yes, this was promising indeed.  The Sergeant tucked the full dustbin under his arm, picked up his candle and hurried down the stairs.

The stack of the discarded letters addressed variously to "my dearest Rebecca," "my beloved Rebecca," and "sweet cousin" turned out to be by far the deepest.  The pile of smoothed and flattened sheets was nearly an inch high.  The other stacks were, in counter-clockwise (and descending) order, addressed to Jean Passepartout, Queen Victoria, Prime Minister Gladstone, Sir Jonathan Chatsworth, and a solicitor named Edwards.

A little over half the notes to Miss Fogg held proposals of marriage, the remainder were lachrymose farewells, and pleas for understanding.  The notes to the valet Passepartout had also been split between two opposing poles.  Six of the eight offered to re-hire Jean Passepartout at whatever wages he should want.  The other two were chill notices that his services were no longer required.

The single note to the solicitor had begun with an instruction to wait one week before delivering the letters in his possession.  The word "one" had been crossed out.  Two had been written next to it.  "Two" also had been crossed out.

But it had been the five or so discarded false-starts to Queen Victoria and Prime Minister Gladstone and the two to the head of the British Secret Service that had revealed the most extensive details of Fogg's mission, the reason and the consequences he expected:  The short of it was that Fogg planned to assassinate Chancellor Otto von Bismarck in Berlin at the end of the week during the monthly dress-review of the troops, and that he sought revenge for the deaths of both his father and his brother.  And the consequences?  As Fogg was no fool, he expected all proverbial Hell to break loose.  Possibly war between England and Prussia.  At the very least a break in diplomatic relations.  Needless to say his apologies to the Queen and the Prime Minister were lengthy.

Squatting among his piles of flattened notes, Richter rocked back on his heels.  He held in his hand the longest and most detailed of the notes, addressed to Sir Jonathan Chatsworth.

"This is it?" he asked, cocking his head back to look up at the sergeant.  "There were no other papers in the room?"

Schnabel shook his head.  "No sir, just a few bills.  You would not believe what he pays for his gaslight … sir."  He added the last as Richter stood up.

Richter bent over and scooped up all the papers from the floor, folded them over and tucked them inside his coat.  "Here he tells us why and who, Sergeant.  I could almost believe this is enough.  I just wish … I feel sure there is someone behind Fogg."  The Kapitan chewed on his lower lip for a moment, then shook his head.  He sighed.  "It will have to be enough.  Fogg will leave for Berlin in the morning, therefore, he must die tonight."

Richter picked up the candle from the floor and walked to the gun cabinet beside the fireplace.  "Which of these muskets is the most accurate, Sergeant?"

Schnabel joined him.  "They're both lovely pieces, Kapitan."  He opened the cabinet, took out the longer of the two muskets and began to load.


	7. Chapter 7

Clop, clop, clip.  On such a night as this, you could hear a carriage coming long before it appeared -- first there'd be a lamp bobbing in the fog, then a black horse, and finally the carriage itself.  If it were a bonnet-shaped hansom, there'd be a cabman riding in his dickey seat.  And although in the fog you couldn't see it, you knew he was squinting, looking for landmarks in the bloody murk, letting his horse pick the way.

Folk around Shillingworth Magna have a saying:  "Easier to stop a bullet than a Fogg."  They usually followed it up with a wink and a nudge, "Less painful too."

Rebecca sighed.  Phileas had definitely inherited that Fogg trait from his father.  After Boniface had made a decision, he'd been a juggernaut, implacable and irreversible, more than willing to knock down and roll over anyone in his path.

Or shoot them, if he had to.

Matilda rounded a corner where wisps of mist congregated beneath a flickering gaslight.  On the hansom's bench Phileas's slack body slid slowly across the squabs toward Rebecca.  Likely he'd fainted again.  She put a hand on his shoulder to brace him up.  Since his graceless collapse to the warehouse floor, Phil's awareness had been in and out.  More out than in, Rebecca rather thought, but still enough in his right mind to order Leo to take them home instead of hospital -- if one could call that a sane, right-minded decision.  Certainly a bull-headed one.

Behind Phil's back, Leo had questioned the order with a raised eyebrow but she'd nodded concurrence.  Doctor Stewart lived in No. 10 if there were need, and she'd wanted away from there.  Fast.  Just minutes before she'd thought to see Phileas dragged into Hell.  She still shivered, and not from the cold.  Her eyes made another quick circuit of their environs.  But the fog hugged so close there was nothing to see.

When they'd stumbled out of the warehouse, Phileas had leaned on her for a cane; but after she'd let go to look for Leo, he'd sagged to his hands and knees in the mud.  Leo had already been bound for them and rattled up in record time when she'd tweeted the "fetch us out."  "Heard yer whiz'len' a while back, Miss Fogg, crazy as a cuckoo in a robin's nest.  Figured I'd best come."  His yellow-toothed smile had been a most welcome sight.

But Rebecca didn't like Phil's on-going weakness.  She gently shook his shoulder.  "Phileas?  Phil?  I'm going to tell Leo to turn about and go to St. Thomas's."  Even if that meant passing close to the warehouse again, not a prospect she cared for.

Eyebrows puckered together into a frown line, long lashes fluttered on white cheeks and Phileas opened his eyes.  Reaching for the strap with a narrow hand, he pulled himself upright.  "Rebecca, we've been through this.  I don't need a hospital.  I need a brandy.  We're going home."  Obstinate Fogg … but his voice sounded stronger.  She returned to her steady scan of the night.

From the corner of her eye she saw Phileas massage his forehead with a mud-encrusted glove, but then no doubt felt the grate of soil and stopped to look at what coated his fingers.  The aristocratic nose twitched.  From the gloves, his eyes traveled down to his legs and straightening one of those out, he assessed the damage to his trousers, which was considerable.  With curled lip and a great show of disgust he began to pick at the soil caked thereon.  A tiny smile in her direction invited her to laugh at his burlesque.  #Yet another ensemble destined for the dustbin,# Rebecca thought, amused despite herself.  Sometimes she suspected Phileas enjoyed destroying his clothes.  Or at least didn't care half as much as he often pretended.

The muddy gloves were smearing on more dirt than they removed.  Phil stopped his picking and began to pull the fine leather off his hands, one filthy finger at a time, declaring as he did so, "Bernard is simply going to have prostrations."  He turned the gloves about under the lantern.  "I have been on probation this year, you know, after I lost his indigo jacket in the West Indies.  He forgave me for that, but then I bought the Castilian brown riding togs in Missouri.  That set him off.  He was gracious enough to admit that was done in the heat of the moment, but I've destroyed #three# -- no, now it's four -- of his ensembles this year."  Phileas slapped the gloves against the splashboard a few times.  They remained caked with mud.  "He required me to get down on my knees and swear to defend this black thing with my life before he'd even let me try it on.  Now I'm sure he'll cut me out of his list."  With a melodramatic flourish, Phileas tossed the ruined gloves past Rebecca and into the fog.  "One should always obey one's tailor, don't you think, Rebecca?"  Really, Phil made a lovely fop when he put his mind to it.

The gloves arced through Rebecca's field of observation.  "Couturiers can be such bullies.  Do what I do.  Buy an ensemble from his chief competitor."

"Ah, the political solution.  Of course.  Excellent advice, Rebecca.  I shall order my next from Lucien.  That should put Bernard off his form."  Despite his silly prattle, Phileas's voice had taken on a soft hollowness that suggested his reserves had been drained to the dregs.  Likely he spoke only to reassure her.

Rebecca turned her scrutiny from the night to Phileas.  He looked awful.  All the panther grace had fled.  Bruised circles made his eyes huge, and dark stubble on his jaw painted in hollows.  If he'd been cadaverous this morning, tonight he was skeletal, as though that thing at the warehouse -- whatever it'd been and she was sure Jules would have a suitable scientific theory -- had sucked away the aqua vitae.

Boniface, toward the end, after Erasmus died and Phileas left the Service, had taken on that same emptied look.  For months, he'd come home late from Whitehall and lay in bed, eyes closed, the wrinkles sharp on his forehead, not touching, silent.  He hadn't even argued with Rebecca.  Not a good sign for a man whose greatest joy had been intelligent discourse.  On any normal day Rebecca and Boniface would have locked horns at least twice – if nothing else presented, about her ambition to become an agent and the proper sauce for the mutton.  She hadn't been able to bear watching him in such pain and her with no balm.

Sometimes Phileas reminded Rebecca so much of his father.

With a tender finger she stroked Phileas's whiskers.  A cold cheek pressed back an answering caress, and his eyes looked sideways at her.  "I'm well.  Don't vex yourself, cousin."  Wretchedly bad liar.  Her hand wanted to continue stroking his face, to feel the life of him, but he'd take that ill.  She dropped the willful appendage and straightened quickly to sit as a proper lady, albeit a trousered one.  Once again duty called.  She'd best resume a lookout.  

No one walked the footways.  Several minutes ago they'd passed two drays bound for the docks.  Now they were alone as they approached Southwark Bridge.  The vapour, if possible, had grown thicker, no doubt hiding a million dead Londoners who awaited such fog-bound nights to walk with the living.  So thick it felt like sea spray on her face, it formed faces and twined wraiths that seemed to pace Leo's black horse.

Phileas picked up her train of thought.  He had a disturbing habit of doing that.  "That was Lazarus, you know, in the warehouse.  He wants me, wants my body.  He tried to take it last year, after Doctor Draquot's infernal machine forced him out of yours."

"You're so sure it was him?"

"Yes.  Yes, I am."  Phileas glanced back to where Leo sat then leaned toward Rebecca and whispered.  "Some sort of bond between slayer and slain, I should think.  But he can't seem to touch me.  He wants me, but something bars him."  His lips pulled into a thin smile.  "My saintly life, no doubt."

"No doubt."  Her arm looped his and pulled him close.  "Why don't you try to sleep a little?  I'll keep watch."  The rattle of the wheels changed to reverberations as the carriage started over Southwark Bridge.

Eyes closed, his head resting in a corner of the carriage, Fogg made an honest effort to sleep.  It failed miserably.  His heart still beat in staccato and his body wanted to bolt upright at every untoward sound.  He did so once or twice but then Rebecca removed one of her gloves and slipped her hand into his.  His thumb stroked the back of it, caressing the delicate bones under the skin.  Even in the coldest weather Rebecca always had warm hands.

Lazarus's reappearance had changed things.  Fogg couldn't leave now, not with that evil ghost coursing London nights looking for victims.  In the morning, Fogg would pay the Baron a call and fetch back Passepartout.  Von Bresslau's mission would wait, death could always wait.  Likely von Bismarck would hold another dress review soon; Prussians were damned fond of such things.  And if not, Fogg would create a suitable venue of his own.  He was good at that.  Fogg had always been good at the game of death.  That's why he'd left it.

And Passepartout should come back where Fogg could protect him.  Harbin's new project could kick its heels for a bit.  As the carriage descended the north side of Southwark bridge and Fogg began to doze off, he thought, # … and I better post Edwards new instructions right away for those letters.  Best laid plans and all that … he'll understand.#

Those with a heart to hate and the dark inner eye could have observed the demons that thronged the whirring wheels of the hansom and cavorted in drunken delirium above the oblivious driver.  Revenge brews a heady wine, and Phig poured out a full-bodied, vigorous hate, a veritable port wine of antipathy, fit, Lazarus was sure, for the Devil's own palate.  What a shame Phig wasted it on despising himself.

The entity known in life to the gentlefolk of England as Sir Reginald Peter Mosford, the Third, and to a select few as Lazarus, followed the hansom at a safe distance, careful not to be seen.  He had no control over this wayward, flickering manifestation.  One minute he was flowing liquid, the next a shimmering light.  And there seemed no rhyme or reason to what he could affect or when he would materialize.  It had been too soon a return.  But he could torment Phig.  Send him more visions and dreams, perhaps drive him mad.

And to bring that about, here was an excellent tool for his hand, pretty little Rebecca Fogg, Boniface's plaything.  Fancied herself an agent now, did she?  She'd make it easy to torture Phig.  He adored her, wanted her with every fiber of his being.  Always had, even if he'd never admitted it to a soul … or a demon.

#Ahh, Miss Fogg, how delightful to find you well,# Lazarus silently saluted Phig's cousin.  #I so much enjoyed our last meeting.#  Although "enjoyed" seemed far too genteel a word.  "Relished" might be closer.  He'd savored Rebecca Fogg's succulent body, using her own fingers to nibble at the soft breasts and the sweet bloom of woman between her legs.  He'd feasted, but there had been so much and only the one night.  He'd welcome another taste, just a lick as it were.

Between droplets of mist, around bricks and under cobbles Lazarus lazed along behind the carriage, occasionally cuffing a lesser phantom aside, awaiting opportunity.

Mariah's hands shook violently, both from fright and the unseemly exertion of running.  The brass key she held tapped the escutcheon plate around the lock instead of going in the keyhole.  Mariah looked anxiously over her shoulder again but there was only a dark alley full of squirmy, shifting fog.  It reminded her much of Gran's tales of brownies and faeries.  And after what she'd just seen on Regent's Street … 

Proper domestics oughtn't be out after dark, so the Evers didn't burn a light over the servants' entrance.  Mariah couldn't really see what she was doing with the key, but with a final desperate stab she got it into the lock and seconds later stood inside the empty kitchen, panting hard, her back against a closed and re-locked door.

"Never again, Lord," she prayed in a whisper.  "Henry Bingle can get himself another lass.  I'm never going to leave my Bessie and sneak out again."  She'd heard of the horrors that filled London's streets in the nighttime.  Now she'd seen the blood and death for herself.  "Never, ever again."

Quite to her surprise, she began to sob.

Choking back soft bubbling sounds, she quickly unlaced and pulled off her shoes.  It wouldn't do to wake Cook or Mrs. Malone, the Evers' housekeeper.  Housemaids were far too easy to replace.  Mariah paused to slip the key back on its hook then hurried across the chill tiles of the kitchen floor in stocking feet.  Carefully stepping over the creakiest treads, Mariah crept up the servants' stair.

Her and Bessie's bedroom was the first on the right, overlooking the Fogg's townhouse.  The two servants had spent many a late evening watching the Foggs, but now with Miss Fogg gone, the Mister would doubtless return to the country.  Or take his balloon and fly 'round the world.  Or drink himself into the grave.

Mr. Fogg never seemed to do anything by halves.

Just after Mr. Fogg's brother had died, the parties next door had lasted for weeks.  Bessie and Mariah had seen ladies, if you could call them that, strolling past the windows clad only in Mr. Fogg's camises -- and Mr. Fogg chasing them dressed in even less.

Back then Mrs. Evers had begged their master to relocate.  Mr. Evers had averred no "professional gambler" would ever force him from his home, and paid Mr. Fogg a call to demand proper decorum be observed at No. 7.  But Mr. Evers had come back quickly and very pale; and the next time Mrs. Evers had broached the subject of moving, he'd told her to, "Hold your peace, Katherine."

All that had been before Miss Fogg had moved in and rescued her cousin from hellfire and damnation.  Mr. Fogg didn't hold his wild parties any more.  More's the pity.  Their neighbour had turned respectable.  But Bessie said Mr. Fogg still gambled every night.  Their own Mistress had held her peace so well, she'd given birth to a baby boy this spring.  Not long after Bessie had moved from pantry to nursery.

Without untoward noise Mariah opened and closed the bedroom door and undressed in the dark, arranging her uniform carefully on the chair to air out and be ready for morning.  She didn't try to sort out a nightdress from the chest.  The room was as dark and cold as Satan's heart; and after the way they'd parted, Mariah figured she'd best not wake up Bessie.

Unfortunately, when Mariah slipped naked into bed, Bessie's snoring ended in a sudden snort.

Bessie's round body stayed firmly turned away from Mariah, but after a long moment Bessie finally asked the wall.  "Well, what did Henry say?  I suppose he proposed?"  Her lisping, little girl voice – so startling in such a large woman -- didn't carry far in the dark room.

Mariah burst into tears again.  "Oh, please, darling, don't scold.  Forgive me for running off."  Shivering between the icy sheets on her side of the bed, Mariah dared to snuggle closer to Bessie's warmth.  "I can't bear it.  Please."

Bessie shrank away from Mariah and might have left the bed if she'd been on the outside.  "I don't see why I should.  That Henry can have you for all I care.  You're not worth any more trouble."

"I didn't see Henry!  I swear I didn't.  I didn't even get past Regent Street!"

Bessie said, "I don't believe you," but Mariah saw the dim white circle of Bessie's face appear in the blackness between her and the wall and the bed ropes shifted as Bessie rolled toward her just a little.

Mariah swallowed.  She didn't want to remember this.  "There wah-was a carriage accident-t-t."  Her teeth chattered, making it hard to talk. "He looked a haunt, Bessie.  Mr. Fogg did, as scary as ghost.  He looked up at me and his eyes just blazed.  He had – he knelt in the street with Miss Fogg in his arms and the blood dripping off his hands, and the carriage burning behind him like the gate to Hell.  Those eyes."  Mariah stirred against Bessie's bulk.  "He looked like death's henchman, Bessie.  Like murder just busting to come for me.  So's I ran, I ran home fast as I could, and tried, I'm trying …"  Mariah' voice trailed off.  Mr. Fogg's blazing eyes, the blood on the street, the screaming horse.  It was more than a body could remember and stay sane.  Mariah's body shook uncontrollably.

Bessie had rolled over.  She pulled Mariah close and whispered a soft, soothing litany.  "There, love.  There, there.  Don't cry.  Just let me hold you.  Do you have a kiss for us, dear?  Come now, give us a kiss."

Mariah's mouth tried to give Bessie a kiss, her teeth coming together -- click-click-click.  She felt Bessie's soft hand slide over her bare hip, then across her belly.  She focused on it.  She wouldn't remember Mr. Fogg or the burning carriage or poor Miss Fogg's limp body.  She didn't have to anymore now that Bessie loved her again.  Mariah moaned as Bessie's experienced fingers slipped between her legs and began to wiggle about in there.  Bessie whispered in Mariah's ear, "Let me help you forget."

Their lips came together.  So did their tongues.


End file.
